


Dreaming of Spires

by mildredmeadowlark



Series: Dreaming Spires [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama & Romance, F/M, Friendship/Love, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Memory Charms, Memory Loss, Mental Breakdown, Obliviation, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Hogwarts, Rare Pairings, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2019-06-11 01:44:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 73,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15304680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildredmeadowlark/pseuds/mildredmeadowlark
Summary: A reclusive Draco Malfoy, barely-recovered from the war, stumbles across Hermione Granger in Oxford, surrounded by books and spires. When he realizes that she has no memories of her life as a witch, he finds himself promising to see her memories restored and her life returned to her. DRAMIONE - EWE - DM/HG - Rated M, just to be sure. Slow burn.





	1. Oxford

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you like it. Please let me know what you think.
> 
> Also, just to let folks know, this is the edited version of my pre-existing work which I have posted on FFN, if anyone wants to skip ahead, but please be aware there are changes which are large enough to be noticeable in later chapters. I will be uploading the edited chapters to FFN as I post them here.
> 
> As this is a current WIP, I'll be uploading new chapters as well as I write them.
> 
> And, as always, feedback is welcomed, and thank you for reading :)
> 
> -Millie xx

** OXFORD **

_June 2005_

They called it ‘ _the city of dreaming spires_ ’ and Draco Malfoy, despite previously held opinions, was very much inclined to agree. He couldn’t help but feel that Oxford – if ever there were a place on Earth – came close to rivalling some of the sheer grandeur and spectacle of the wizarding world.

Almost, but not quite.

Though he was there on business, he allowed himself time to meander through the streets, admiring the beautiful architecture, the endless towers and spires, for which the city was famous. It was something he would never have permitted himself, in a different time.

It had been a different world, a broken one.

He had been a different person then, too. Someone he wished to forget, but couldn’t.

His route took him past the Radcliffe Camera, vast, ornate and beautiful, finally stopping at the Bodleian Library. An imposing building, handsome, with an air of solidity, and it reminded Draco of Malfoy Manor in that regard.

He’d come to Oxford in search of a manuscript. It was not the first time he had ventured into the Muggle world in search of a rare tome. The Muggle world was almost as rich in magical texts as the wizarding one, something which amused him to no end.

Most of these texts were not strictly _magical_ , in that they had no overtly magical properties, however they frequently documented, quite clearly, magical rites and traditions, and even magical historical events and incantations.

Of course, the Muggles dismissed them as mysticism, or paganism, or religion, whatever. It would simply never have occurred to them that what they were reading was real, tangible magic.

He’d stumbled across these Muggle texts quite by accident; while hunting down a different book, and hitting upon nothing but dead-ends, he had, in a move borne of sheer frustration, expanded his search to include the Muggle world. And though he’d felt it highly unlikely that a magical problem could be answered by anything in the Muggle world, he’d been proven wrong.

 He had - unwittingly, he admitted - unearthed himself a treasure trove.

He entered the library and took a deep breath. It never failed to delight him, this place. Belying the imposing facade, the interior of the library was utterly beautiful. It reminded him of Hogwarts library, and each time he was here he half expected Madam Pince to come charging around a corner, twitching in indignation.

The afternoon light of late June spilled in through the high windows, hitting the towering bookshelves, the balconies and vaulted ceilings, gliding everything it touched with a deep, warm gold. There was a rich silence, a muffled calm that felt almost sacred, reverent. He was met after a couple of moments by a woman with short dark hair, wearing gold-framed glasses and a pleasant, open smile.

            “Good afternoon. You must be Mr Malfoy. I’m Dr. Juliane Turner,” she said, holding out a hand for him to shake. “We spoke on the phone.”

            “Nice to properly meet you, Dr. Turner,” he replied.

            “So, did you have any trouble getting here? Where was it you said you were coming from?” asked Dr. Turner, as they walked through the vast library.

            “No, far from it. I’m based out of London; I’ve travelled much further afield in search of a manuscript. Usually for purchase, though. This is a special case,” said Draco, with a polite smile.

            “Yes, you certainly have impressive credentials. I have colleagues twice your age with less to show, and well...,” she laughed, “this _is_ Oxford. I’m surprised they haven’t tried to lure you onto the faculty in one way or another.”

            “You’re being generous. Besides, I’m very content working for myself; I don’t deal very well with other people.”

            “Ah, a hermit. Well, you wouldn’t be the first, would you?”

They had arrived at a door and paused for a moment.

            “So,” Dr. Turner grinned, “let’s get down to business. Coffee before, or after?”

            “Oh, definitely before,” replied Draco, “You can tell me some more about the book while we’re at it. I have notes, in that regard, but maybe you have some further insights?”

            “Oh that I do. I actually did one of my doctorate papers on this very manuscript.”

* * *

 

After a quick coffee with Dr. Turner, where she went through his notes and gave him a more comprehensive overview of the manuscript, its history and irregularities – a stroke of luck, on his part, as it was these very irregularities which would help him to recognise the references to true magic amid the... elaborations of Muggle nonsense – they left the cafe and Dr. Turner brought him to the ‘lab’, as she called it, which was located in the New Bodleian Library.

            “I’m sure you understand,” said Dr. Turner, as they walked down a bland, beige corridor. “It’s still in good condition, for an illuminated text, and its age, for that matter, but _because_ of its age we really do need to take extra care. So we’ll be viewing the text in more sterile surroundings than is normal – temperature controlled and restricted light - but that said, it is extremely rare for anyone to even be allowed in here for such a viewing.”

            “I entirely understand. I have more respect for books than I do for most people, so you can be sure it will be completely safe with me,” Draco replied.

She stopped in front of a door, and swiped her card to open it.

            “Good.” she said, as she pushed the door open, “Right, well, after you.”

Draco walked through to a white, sterile looking room. There were two large tables in the centre of the room, and at each end of the room was a desk with a computer. A number of chairs sat underneath the windows, which had the blinds pulled, to limit the amount of light entering the room. Dr. Turner followed him in and made towards a door at the far end of the room.

The smaller room was windowless, and two of the walls were lined with sleek, white cupboards, while another wall was taken up with a row of counters and a sink. Dr. Turner opened a cupboard and began taking out a number of things they would need for the viewing, while Draco made for the sink and proceeded to wash his hands and sterilising them, at her request.

            “Right,” Dr. Turner began, looking down at a file she had taken from one of the cupboards, “I’ll just set this stuff up at one of the tables, and one of my colleagues should be up shortly. We’ll only have it for two hours at most. Rules and regulations, so much red tape, you know? It’s unfortunate that we don’t have the book on microfiche yet, but it _is_ due to be archived soon.”

            “That’s fine, Dr. Turner. If I need to, I’ll arrange another viewing. Can I give you a hand with some of that stuff?”

Just as Dr. Turner was about to reply, there was the sound of the door opening in the other room, and an urgent voice called out.

            “Jules? You in here? Stan said you were...”

A plump blonde woman entered the room, looking somewhat frantic.

            “Oh, there you are. Listen, there’s a bit of a to-do down below. It’s rather urgent. Can you...?”

            “What is it?” asked Dr. Turner.

The blonde woman leant in to Dr. Turner and murmured something into her ear.

“Oh my, not again. Mr. Malfoy, please excuse me for a minute. You don’t mind?” Draco didn’t. “Please help yourself to tea or coffee. You’ll find everything you need above the sink. I’ll be as quick as I can, but I really am required.”

And with that, she left.

Draco decided to take the woman’s advice and have another coffee. He fetched a cup and pulled his wand out, and a stream of piping hot coffee poured into his cup. He turned and walked back into the main room and set up one of the tables there for the viewing, before heading over to the tables.

He could feel impatience starting to creep in. He had been researching this book for quite some time. The _Liber Silentiorum_ , as it was called – The _Book of Silences_ – was one of the oldest Muggle manuscripts he had sought out, and almost unique in its content, as well as style.

Draco liked to think he was a patient man. He was unafraid to spend hours meticulously researching, poring over old records and listings, examining articles and papers, reading book after book on art history, ancient art... And in the case of the _Silentiorum_ , he had more than paid his dues.

But now it was time to collect on all those hours spent searching, and checking and double checking, and yet he was here _still_ waiting. He fought against the impulse to curse Muggle incompetence, because he knew they were not really inept, not really... though sometimes, _sometimes_ , he found it difficult. And even the oldest of habits died hard.

It was just a book.

Though, really, he’d be lying to himself. It wasn’t _just_ a book.

And he hated being made to wait.

He sighed heavily and took a sip of his coffee. Behind him, he heard the door opening again, and he turned, expecting the return of Dr. Turner. Instead:

            “Granger?” he heard himself say.

Startled dark, dark brown eyes met his. She was different, yet still instantly recognisable. Her face had thinned, and her hair, still brown, was shorter now, the wildness of it tamed into curls that sat just at her collarbone. She was casually dressed in a loose-fitting white shirt and jeans, holding a strange-looking box.

She looked good, though Draco was too shocked at her appearance to actively register it.

            “I’m sorry... do I know you?” came her confused reply.

            “What? Of course you do.”

            “No... I’m certain I’d remember you,” she said with an amused smile, as she sat the box on the table.

            “You _are_ Hermione Granger, aren’t you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her, suddenly suspicious.

            “Yes. And who are you?”

            “Seriously?”

She shot him a look. It was definitely her. What in the name of Merlin was going on?

            “Of course I am. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” she said, with a hint of tartness to her tone.

            “I’m Draco Malfoy,” he said, waiting for the reaction.

Nothing.

            “With a name like that, I’d _definitely_ remember you,” she replied, smiling, “but I really am sorry, I don’t know you.”

This wasn’t right. He may not have been her best friend in school, but they had known each other for more than a decade. She wasn’t so petty as to just ignore him for the sake of it. Could she have forgotten... been _made_ to forget?

It was a possibility.

There was something... something he was missing...

            “Can I ask you a couple of questions?” he asked her.

            “Sure,” she shrugged, frowning at him now.

            “Where did you go to school?”

            “St. George’s Upper College, in Salisbury, then here at Oxford. Why?”

            “Tell me,” he continued, disregarding her question, “does the name Hogwarts mean anything to you?”

There was a momentary flicker, there, in her eyes, then a frown.

            “No...” she said, though she sounded unsure. “What is it? Is it a place?”

            “What about... Harry Potter? Do you recognise that name?”

She had to know this. She _had_ to.

            “Hmmm...” she scrunched up her nose. “Do you mean Harry Peters? He wrote a number of, well, rather dry papers on the manuscripts of the Ottonian period. They’re very, very... _detailed_. Rather good bedtime reading.”

Somehow, _somehow_ , Draco found himself laughing, in spite of his growing certainty that something was seriously wrong.

            “One last question, if I may?”

She nodded, amused.

            “Does the word”- Draco began to speak but he was cut short by the door opening, and Dr. Turner walking in.

            “My apologies, Mr Malfoy. Oh, Hermione. And you brought the book. Excellent. Would you care to take a quick peek before myself and Mr Malfoy get down to it? Are you all right, dear?”

Granger looked somewhat dazed, but was quickly recovering her wits.

            “Yes, of course. Myself and Mr Malfoy were just discussing the Ottonian papers by Harry Peters,” she replied.

            “Oh dear. Have you read them, Mr Malfoy?” asked Dr. Turner.

            “No, actually, though it sounds as though I’ve had a lucky escape.”

            “I wouldn’t recommend them. Very dry. Now, let’s get things set up here.”

However, as soon as Dr. Turner’s hands touched the box that Hermione had left on the table, her mobile phone began to ring.

            “Oh, for heaven’s sake, this is getting ridiculous. I’m sorry, just let me step out and take this call,” she said, looking very flustered, and heading towards the door.

Once again, Draco found himself alone with Hermione Granger. This strange girl who looked familiar, and yet somehow was profoundly different. Taking a step towards her, he decided to try again. A different approach. But before he could, she spoke.

            “What was it you were going to say?” she asked, with that eager, curious look he remembered from school.

            “I can’t right now,” said Draco, eyeing the door significantly. “But, if you really do want to know, want to talk to me, I’ll give you my card. We can meet later, or another time, if you want.”

He closed the distance between them without thinking, his fingers drifting towards her forearm, where he knew a damning word lay carved upon her skin, hidden now by the thin cotton of her shirt. He would not touch it. Memories threatened again, but they were kept at bay by... what? By her? The mystery of what had happened to her? He knew he was missing something there, and it was unlike him to ignore the details.

That rankled.

            “Just think about it,” he murmured, as she looked up into his face, her eyes large, and very dark.

            “I will,” she breathed, as he stepped away from her and set a small white card on the table.

He tapped his fingers against the table, thinking quickly, then threw a glance her way. She was watching him, with those dark eyes of hers, with a sort of glittering wariness that seemed familiar to him.

            “Are you certain you don’t remember meeting me, ever?” he had to ask one last time.

She looked at him a long moment before giving him an answer.

            “Quite sure. I meant what I said before. I’d remember you,” she paused, then added as she moved towards him. “Trust me.”

She placed her hand on the table, and kept her gaze on his as she stood next to him, her eyes filled with a curious warmth that Draco had never expected to see directed at him. It was a heady experience, the more so for being unexpected.

She skimmed her fingertips across the table, close, _close_ to his hand, and then away again before picking up the card he had left there. She was still standing close enough for him to catch the soft allure of her perfume, to notice the faint remark of gooseflesh on her skin; a quiet hint that she was not as cool and unaffected as she let on.

Draco turned his body so he was facing her, and he found himself wanting to touch her, to let his fingers linger on the arch of her brow, the faint freckles dusted like brown sugar across her cheeks, the elegant line of her collarbone. It was a surreal sort of moment, because he had never anticipated meeting Hermione Granger here, on this day, never imagined himself looking at her like this, and really _seeing_ her.

And furthermore, liking what he saw.

It ended as the sounds of Dr. Turner at the door disturbed them. Draco stepped away from the girl in front of him, while she pocketed the card and sauntered over to Dr. Turner, throwing a quick, smirking glance over her shoulder as she did. Dr. Turner shut the door behind her, and turned off her phone, sighing exasperatedly.

            “Finally! I am so sorry Mr Malfoy. I promise you there will be no further interruptions.”

            “Don’t worry about it, please,” Draco answered, his earlier impatience gone.

            “It’s a disaster down below,” Dr. Turner turned to Granger. “I’m afraid you’ll be needed. Do you mind awfully?”

            “No - I have a few manuscripts to run over, but it’s only for one of Norman’s papers so it’ll keep,” Granger replied. “Do they need me now?”

            “I imagine so. I am sorry about this Hermione. Come up to me here, before four, and I’ll give you a look at the book, if you want. I know it’s a favourite.”

            “Will do,” nodded Granger, as she moved to the door, all business “I’ll see you in a bit, Jules. Nice to meet you Mr Malfoy.”

Then she was gone. The ball was in her court now.

Draco wondered if she would play.


	2. The Cypress Wand

** THE CYPRESS WAND **

_June 2005_

They called it the Mystery Penthouse, those who lived in the Erebus House Apartments. In truth, there was no great mystery - as the doorman, Hubert Willis, could have told them. But then, no one ever seemed to ask him much, beyond the polite ‘How are you’ or ‘Shocking weather, isn’t it’.

He received plenty of friendly nods and cordial smiles, but that was it. And, it had to be said, the residents of Erebus House were hardly a riveting bunch, which was perhaps why the Mystery had taken on the proportions it had. Nobody knew who lived there. Nobody could access it from the lift, or the stairs, and yet _someone_ lived there. Whoever it was, they had never been seen, whether crossing the lobby in the morning, or chatting to Joseph the caretaker at resident’s meetings.

It was said by some that the penthouse was the retreat of a famous film star; by others that it was owned by a billionaire, an eccentric recluse; and, by fewer people, it was said that the penthouse was home to a melancholy sort of ghost. But Hubert knew it was none of these things. He supposed it _could_ be seen as a retreat, of sorts; and he supposed, as well, that the owner of the penthouse _could_ also be seen as a recluse; and there was no denying he was wealthy, too.

But he was no ghost.

The man in question walked into the lobby, which was unusual, as he preferred not to use it. It was late in the evening, almost nightfall, and the sky outside was streaked navy and lilac as the final light of day was leached away. Hubert looked up from his book in surprise, as the man paused to greet him.

            “Good evening, Hubert, how are you?” he asked.

            “Very well, sir, and you?” replied Hubert.

            “Good, I think. I’ve had a most intriguing day,” the man said, glancing down at Hubert’s book. “What are you reading?”

It was an old routine; he asked every time. And he was always interested in the answer.

            “ _Beloved_ by Toni Morrison.” Hubert held out the book for the man to look at.

            “Is it good? Are you enjoying it?” he asked, looking the cover over briefly, before handing the book back.

            “It’s excellent, but not an easy one, if you catch my meaning. But I prefer a book that will give me a pause, make me stop and ponder, over some of the rubbish they print nowadays.”

The man stared at him a moment; a long, measured look. His next words surprised Hubert.

            “Could you recommend a book for me? I don’t read much for pleasure, but perhaps I should.”

            “I’d be delighted. Now, something to challenge you a bit, I reckon. Let me think... There’s one... I have it in my office,” said Hubert, as he shuffled into his office, returning with the book in his hands. “Called _The Alchemist_ , by a man called Paulo Coelho. It’s a short read, but a good one.”

The man took it, an amused expression on his face.

            “Thank you Hubert,” he said, as he scanned the cover of the book, then he looked up suddenly and glanced at the lobby entrance. “I think I’ll be heading up now. I’ll take the stairs.”

He paused and smirked at that, then headed to the door which led to the stairwell. As he was about to go through, he called a goodnight to Hubert.

            “Goodnight, Mr. Malfoy,” the doorman replied.

As soon as the words left his mouth, the lobby door opened, and Mr. and Mrs. Everett came through. Hubert smiled to himself, as he offered a nod to the couple, thinking of how Mr. Malfoy seemed to have a sixth sense about when other residents were about. And perhaps he did. In much the same way that Mr. Malfoy chose to use the stairs, when the stairs did not reach the penthouse, Hubert imagined.

* * *

 

Draco shut the door behind him, then turned on the spot and apparated up to his apartment. It was cool, and dim and mercifully quiet. Behind him, there was a soft padding of paws on the wooden floor, and he felt his cat, Aisling, winding herself around his legs in greeting.

            “Hello, darling,” he murmured, bending down to stroke her, as she purred gently.

He walked over to the bar and poured himself a large glass of some well-aged Firewhiskey. He took a sip, savouring it, and then flicked his wand at the balcony doors, causing them to open. He strode through them, settling at the balustrade and looking out at the London skyline. He pulled out a slim, silver case and flipped it open to reveal a row of cigarettes. Placing one between his lips he used his wand to light it and took a deep drag, exhaling long and slow. He stayed there and finished his cigarette, then another, sipping slowly at his drink.

He liked to do this at the end of most days – to stand and watch the city seethe and flow, to hear the distant sounds of chaos, held back by the vast openness of the air, high up as he was. He didn’t allow himself to think; simply to settle, breathe. He needed to shrug off the stresses, the weariness that came from the simple act of living, of fighting his own self.

When he was finished, feeling somewhat refreshed, he returned to the apartment, grabbed his briefcase, and headed into his study. Sitting down at his desk and setting his notes to one side, he finally allowed himself to assess his encounter with Granger.

It should have been the _Silentiorum_ preoccupying him this evening, not _her_.

Draco took his Pensieve from one of the shelves behind him and placed his memory of the afternoon inside it. He’d found it immensely useful in his research, and he had no doubt that it would help him in this too.

Mulling over Granger’s behaviour from earlier, he couldn’t help but think that she had been Obliviated. Everything seemed to suggest it. It was the _only_ conclusion.

But why?

And how, obviously.

He knew he would have to proceed carefully. If she decided to contact him at all, that was. But as it was, he was already determined to see her again. He would make sure of it.

* * *

 

_Earlier that day_

After Granger had left, Dr. Turner set up the manuscript for viewing and Draco gave himself a moment to clear his head, to drive that girl from his head. He would never focus as he ought to if any thoughts of her were lingering. He would address that situation later.

As if in recompense for the disjointedness of the past hour, Dr. Turner was keen to get to work and give Draco a thorough look at the _Silentiorum_. It was absorbing and fascinating. Draco would never tire at looking at the beautiful, vivid colours so painstakingly inked and deciphering the stories and symbols hidden within.

Dr. Turner offered some excellent insights, despite her being a Muggle, and he made far more progress over the course of two hours than he ever imagined. They covered almost a third of the book in the two hours, and as they were clearing up Dr. Turner asked him if he wanted to make a return appointment to view the book again.

            “I have no doubt,” she said, “that you would be given clearance, especially after the success you had today.”

Draco paused. Under normal circumstances, he would have attempted to duplicate the manuscript, or buy it, but he found that he liked having an excuse to return. To see _her_ again, ridiculous though it seemed.

            “Yes, I believe I will. Today, if possible,” Draco replied.

Dr. Turner grinned at him.

            “Yes, the book had that effect on me too. Well, let’s get you set up for another viewing. Come up to my office and I’ll begin the paperwork. Honestly, it never ends.”

As they walked up to Dr. Turner’s office, Draco decided to find out more about Granger’s life in the Muggle world, to see if there was any truth to his suspicions. He had to be certain.

            “How long has Miss Granger worked here?”

Dr. Turner shot him a knowing look.

            “She’s an interesting girl. _Technically_ , she works for me. She’s my assistant researcher. But, to be honest, she helps everyone in this department. Somewhat indispensible, I suppose. She has a brilliant mind, and is diligent worker too. She’s been here, oh, just over a year,” she laughed with a quick breath, and added, “though it certainly feels like longer. She was a student over at Merton College before that. She’s doing a masters now.”

            “That’s certainly a glowing recommendation. You know...” he paused, “she reminds me of someone I went to school with. She was considered to be one of the brightest of her age. A bit like Miss Granger, going by your words.”

            “I don’t think I would dispute that,” she replied thoughtfully.

            “What did she study?” Draco asked, curious, despite himself.

            “I think you should try to find that out for yourself, don’t you?” answered Dr. Turner said, with just a hint of a smirk.

            “Perhaps,” he said, before changing the subject. “So I wanted to ask you about the paper you mentioned, the one you wrote about the _Silentiorum_...”

Leaving Dr. Turner’s office, infernal paperwork complete, Draco checked his watch to see that the hour was later than he’d thought. He was due to meet Pansy, with whom he still – mercifully - had a relatively good relationship. He thought she might be his best friend, though he doubted she’d see that as a compliment.

Finding a bathroom, Draco went in and checked that it was empty before disapparating. He landed in Diagon Alley, which was busy these days, regardless of the hour. A stark change from the grim, stripped look it bore during the war years. Not that long ago at all, but long enough for wounds to begin to heal.

On the surface, at least.

He was meeting Pansy for dinner in a discreet little restaurant just off the main thoroughfare of Diagon alley, called The Cypress Wand. He was running late, not by much, but she didn’t like being made to wait. Witches and wizards thronged outside of pubs and restaurants, and even at this late hour, stalls were still lining the streets; the atmosphere was light and relaxed – a perfect summer’s evening, and entirely unrecognisable from the devastation of only seven years ago.

Draco made it to the restaurant only five minutes late. He was led to a table in a dimly lit corner, where Pansy sat, sipping at a glass of red wine, an unimpressed expression on her face. Pansy did not approve of tardiness.

She looked better these days.

The war, and the aftermath, had not been kind to Pansy. She had suffered at Hogwarts under the Carrows. Her mother had been a deeply unpopular Death Eater, and Pansy had been punished for it and more. Used as a toy, she had been mocked and tortured; abused, spending almost two months under the Imperius at one point. She did not talk about what they had made her do.

She had scars on her shoulders and back, too. From what, Draco didn’t know. She didn’t exactly show them off.

The aftermath of the war saw her father dead and her mother in Azkaban for her association with the Dark Lord. Shunned by the wizarding community, Pansy had been left entirely alone in her family’s large manor home. It had not been good for her. She refused to speak about that too, like so much else in her life. Only a year or two ago she had been too thin - to an unhealthy degree, her skin sallow and almost waxy, and her hair lank and stringy...

This evening, however, she looked wonderful. Her hair was thick and shiny, and her skin glowed, lightly tanned; and she had regained the fuller figure Draco remembered from their youth.

            “I would say you look beautiful,” he said as he sat down, “but for that scowl on your face. Pansy, dear, it makes you look like a hag.”

It had the desired effect: Pansy bubbled into laughter, before leaning forward to slap his arm.

            “You utter arse, Draco Malfoy.”

            “I’m sorry I’m late, if that helps?”

            “You’re always late.”

            “Not my fault this time. I got held up at a viewing.”

            “A likely story, I’m sure.”

            “A _true_ story, no less.”

            “And let me guess, was there a _girl_ involved?”

            “A woman. Mid-forties, two kids and married. It’s all very romantic, you see.”

            “I can feel the passion from here. Positively _throbbing_.”

            “How are you, Pansy?”

            “Oh, you know...”

            “Yes, of course. That’s why I asked.”

            “Now, now, Draco, be good or I won’t play.”

            “Fine,” he laughed, conceding defeat. “You win. I’ll play nice.”

            “Good,” she cooed teasingly. “Now shall we order? And then I’ll tell you my news. And a drink for you too.”

            “Good. There’s something I need your advice on.”

            “Aha! I knew there was a girl!”

            “Shut up.”

They chatted idly as they examined the menu, then ordered food and fresh drinks. Once their drinks had been placed on the table, Pansy brought the conversation back around to Draco.

            “So, dearest Draco, what’s the dilemma?” Pansy asked, dipping into her wine.

Draco sighed.

            “I need your advice, Pansy. I saw someone today... and this... its serious,” he paused, uncertain, and unlike himself. “Well, you know I was in Oxford today - for the current manuscript. It’s housed in one of the libraries there. While I was waiting to view it, I ran into...” he sighed wearily. “You really won’t believe this – it was Granger. Hermione Granger.”

He stopped for a moment to take a sip of his Firewhiskey. When he looked over to Pansy, he saw her expression was serious. Her wine was almost half gone at this stage, Draco noted. Then he continued.

            “Pansy, she had no idea who I was. None. Had never heard of Hogwarts. Didn’t know Harry _bloody_ Potter. She was... like a Muggle. It’s like she was Obliviated... I’m almost certain of it.”

Pansy took another healthy sip of her wine before replying, her face troubled.

            “And you’re quite sure, Draco?”

            “Of course I am!” he snapped at her, draining half of his own drink in a quick gulp.

            “Calm down! I believe you.”

            “I’m sorry... It’s just, you didn’t see her. It was her, but it _wasn’t_. When I mentioned Hogwarts there was nothing, when I mentioned Potter she started going on about some bloody academic nonsense.” He rolled his eyes and continued. “She told me - without even a twitch - that she went to school in some Muggle place. The woman I actually went to see in Oxford is her boss, you know, and she told me that Granger has been working there for at least a year, and she studied in Oxford before that too. What the bloody hell happened?”

Pansy frowned, polishing off her wine without a second thought. She looked up after a moment, her brow still furrowed and caught Draco’s eye.

            “Draco, I’m going to tell you something now. I think it will help you understand...” She looked down at her hands briefly, then up again to meet his eyes with a frankness that was unexpected. “You were in France, and you lived in such... isolation -you still do, by the way- so you may not have heard. Hermione Granger disappeared, about five - maybe six - years ago now. There was uproar over here, as I’m sure you can imagine. She just disappeared without a trace. There was a huge search for her; lasted almost a year but they found _nothing_ , not a single thing. And now _you’ve_ found her,” she paused, sighing. “The reason I asked if you were certain is not because I doubt you, but because I had to be sure.”

 Draco felt somewhat stunned. It wasn’t terribly difficult for him to accept the... unpleasantness of what Pansy had just explained to him; he had seen far worse at the hands of his fellow Death Eaters. It was almost impossible for him to think of them without feeling a tremor of revulsion within him. He wondered... could it have been one of the lost Death Eaters? Rosier, perhaps? Yaxley? They would have motive – of a sort.

            “What are you going to do?” came Pansy’s next question, cutting into his thoughts.

            “I don’t know, obviously, or I wouldn’t be asking for your advice.”

She scowled at him.

            “I wouldn’t ask anyone else.”

            “That’s because you don’t have anyone else,” came her acid reply.

            “Touché,” he raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement. “But you know that’s not why I’m asking you. I know I have no one left – no one I can trust, anyway, but Pansy, I trust you. I know you’ll be honest with me, and you’ve known me since we were kids. Also, you’re a girl. I had hoped you might be able to offer any insight into the Gordian knot that is Granger’s mind.”

            “Do you truly want to know what I think?”

He nodded.

            “You need to tell Potter,” she told him, matter of fact. “Now, don’t give me that look, you know you do. If there is anyone in a position to help her, it’s him.”

Draco scowled, but Pansy was more than a match for him. She held his gaze, arms crossed, a mulish set to her jaw. Draco looked away first, knowing, and let out a groan.

            “Ugh, Pansy, I hate it when you’re right.”

            “I know,” she replied, but there was no smugness in her tone.

            “How did I miss this? Even in France, there would have been _some_ news.”

            “Draco, five years ago you were in an alcoholic fug so thick it looked like pea soup. There was nothing getting through that.”

He shot her a scowl. He had lost the best part of eighteen months drowning himself in Firewhiskey, and did not care to be reminded of it. Even now, if he allowed his control to slip once again... he didn’t want to think of it; and even though he knew that he would never allow alcohol to grip him as it had in those first years after the war, it was still, always, a sweet temptation.

One he couldn’t quite relinquish.

His father had hated any kind of weakness, for all that he was a weak man himself – weak-willed, weak character, and, in the end, weak-hearted – and Draco loathed the fact that had shown himself to be of the same calibre as his sire: a pathetic fool.

            “You’re looking rather friendly with that glass of wine yourself, you know, darling,” he retorted.

Pansy flushed.

            “No need to bite, Drake. I’m celebrating.”

            “Oh?”

Suddenly, Pansy looked rather rosy. Then, she raised her left hand and held it out towards him. He caught it, looking down at a rather elegant silver band, adorned with a simple, marquise-cut garnet. It was strange, he thought, how it looked as though it had always meant to be there. He looked up and met her eyes.

            “My, my, dearest Pansy. Congratulations,” he leant across the table and kissed her cheek, releasing her hand as he returned to his chair. “So, who is the lucky man?”

            “Thank you,” she smiled, before looking down to her lap, hesitating before replying. “It’s... its Dean Thomas.”

There was a beat of silence before Draco spoke.

            “Dean Thomas... Gryffindor. Muggle-born Dean Thomas? Him? Really? How, Pansy?” he asked, reaching for his drink once more, and was surprised when he realised the glass was empty. “Why did you never mention him before? I’ve been back for almost a year now.”

This time it was Pansy who scowled.

            “Why? Are you really asking me that? Draco, besides these past few months, I’ve barely seen you since, well, Hogwarts. You buried yourself in France and... well, I wasn’t in such a great place then, either.” She paused, sighing heavily and then went on. “I ended up in St. Mungo’s, did you know that? That’s where I met Dean. He was in Healer training at the time – he’s fully qualified now. I was in the Willa Frobisher ward – it’s for people who... suffered, in the aftermath of the war. You would have fit right in.

“I was there for, oh, seven or so months. Dean, well, he wasn’t _my_ Healer, but he worked on the ward, and we became friends. He was... despite everything, _everything_ , so kind to me. He smiled at me, when I thought no one ever would,” she said with a soft smile. “We stayed friends even after I was released, and that’s all we were until last year. But he makes me happy; happier than I ever thought I could be, than I ever thought I would deserve.”

            “You know, I’m truly happy for you. And you deserve it as much as anyone else who had to suffer through that fucking war. More, even,” he paused and reached across the table to squeeze her hand. “And I don’t care that Thomas is a muggle-born, if that’s what you were worried about-”

            “You know that’s not what I was worried about!”

            “Well, it doesn’t bother me, anyway. The fact that he’s a Gryffindor however...” Draco trailed off with a smirk, though his heart wasn’t truly in it, and she could tell.

            “Oh shut it, you,” replied Pansy with a laugh that echoed hollowly.

            “In all seriousness though, once he keeps you happy, I don’t care who he is. And, clearly he is. You look wonderful – radiating happiness. But... why didn’t you tell me before now? I mean...” he took a deep breath, “you’re the only friend I have left. Why didn’t you trust me?”

Pansy gave him a long, measured look. Draco felt that he knew the answer already, and felt the spiky black mass inside him rise up, cracking his composure. All those years past, seven years, spread like a vast gulf between them, a quilt of words unspoken, and ugly, blistering memories.

He still couldn’t bear to be home for longer than a few weeks, before fleeing to the cottage – white and windswept, nestled amongst the dunes of a chilly beach in Brittany.

            “Draco,” Pansy began with a sigh, “do you have any idea how hard it is for me to trust _anyone_ these days? I mean... you went to shit after the war - not that I blame you, how could I? I thought I’d lost you. And with my family, you know... gone, I was so alone. And- and- and you... you’d had barricaded yourself behind all that anger and then, I don’t know - just decided to just drown yourself in alcohol...

“I thought you were gone. And even now, you’ve been back, what, a year but _you’re not really back_ , Draco.” She glared at him momentarily. “You have that Muggle place in London, and you barely stay there before you flee back to France... You may look like you have recovered, and sound like it too, but I know, _I know_ , you are not.”

And she was right, too. Draco wanted to hate her for it, but he couldn’t, because he couldn’t lie to Pansy. He owed her at least that.

            “I hate it when you’re right,” he said, again.

            “I know.”

Then she reached across the table and took his hand into her own with a tight, desperate squeeze.

* * *

 

_~ The Penthouse_

Ensconced in his study, nursing a fresh drink, Draco knew he would have to take Pansy’s advice (and damn her for being right) and speak to Potter about his run-in with Granger.

Harry Potter, Saviour, Boy Who Lived, etc., was by no means the focus of Draco’s childish insults anymore; not when he owed Potter so much. Draco was not a man who liked to be indebted to anyone. And knowing what he owed Potter... well, it made him uncomfortable. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Potter – he certainly didn’t hate him; he was a good man, a decent one, someone who was driven by good intentions, loyalty, courage. Draco didn’t have much of any of that. He was... inadequate, to say the least.

But in the face of what he had discovered, could he really use these feelings of inadequacy as an excuse to avoid talking to Potter – a man he didn’t really dislike for any active reason, and to whom he owed his freedom, among other things.

He sighed.

He knew he had to. It would be so undeniably wrong of him to just walk away at this stage. Hadn’t he offered his card to Granger this afternoon in a fit of madness.

Under normal circumstances, Draco would give anything for a quiet life. Unless it was for his books, his collection, he didn’t like to trouble himself. His books had saved him. People had not. And that was simply how he saw the world. Until today.

It was strange, he thought, seeing Hermione Granger stripped of her magical knowledge like that... It seemed unnatural to him, as though she was missing that which was most elemental to her. And, in a way, she was.

He knew it now. He always had, really. She was a far more intelligent and instinctive witch than anyone else he had ever met. Her blood, her parentage, had very little to do with it; her ability, her determination and flair were all simply part of who she was.

Back when they had been in Hogwarts, and he’d been an obnoxious little snot who’d enjoyed lording his position, his privilege over others, enjoying it – and everything that went with it. A sneering mask for an insecure child. And he hadn’t understood until it was too late.

But he was no insecure child now. He needed to get over himself and contact Potter, simply because it was _right_. And he would do it too. However... he would be doing it his way. He wanted to see more of Granger, first. Keep her to himself, just for a little while. She intrigued him, puzzled him. And she was certainly easy on the eyes.

It was time for Draco to set his mind to research, something he was very good at, thanks to his collection. His newest subject: Hermione Granger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who stopped by for a read. Hope you've enjoyed this new chapter :)
> 
> As before, I am uploading the edited chapters both here and on FFN. If you wish to read ahead, please be aware of that it's the unedited version you're reading. I'll also be posting certain upcoming chapters in batches.
> 
> I hope you're enjoying so far, and please let me know what you think.
> 
> -Millie x


	3. Details

** DETAILS **

_June 2005_

The sun was just beginning to pierce the thick drifts of cloud that sat like eiderdown on top of the valley of rolling hills. A glimmer, and then finally... a shaft of light won through and struck the towering spires of the castle; the grey stone, usually so harsh and unyielding, softened to an almost-bronze hue; mist, fragments of cloud, drifted and eddied about like scraps of cotton on the wind.

She could almost smell the pine from the surrounding hills and mountains, feel the crackle in the air, so familiar... she could hear the sighing and creaking from the forest below. She would stand here forever, if she could.

_This_ was home.

From behind, she could hear the sounds of footfall on the stairs, the murmur of voices, but she did not turn. She could not bear to. But her solitude could not last forever. The clamouring of feet and voices grew ever closer, until she could discern her own name amid the tumble of noise.

            “ _Hermione_!”

And with that, she was awake.

Unlike her some of her other dreams, she did not wake with her heart pounding and coated in sweat, a scream clawing its way from somewhere deep within her. This time it was different. She had simply opened her eyes, and been peaceful. It was so rare, that.

She was not a good sleeper. She worked late into the night, often falling asleep at her desk, and slept fitfully when at home. She rose early, often going for a quick run before starting her day.Really though, there was no greater pleasure than running through the streets of Oxford, while everything was still asleep and all was quiet. That was when the city felt like it belonged only to her. It was her place... It was not, however, home.

She didn’t know where that was.

The light hitting the wall looked strange; a cool, watery orange, still tinged with the navy of night. It was that hour between late and early, where it felt as though the world was holding its breath for that moment when dawn would burst over the horizon like a gasp. Hermione was often awake to see the dawn, but not actually experience it, not like that. She didn’t think that she had ever experienced that golden moment when the sun began to raise its head from the cover of night. She didn’t _think_ she had. She didn’t know for sure though. She hated that.

This wouldn’t do, though, thinking like this. Deciding to ignore the dream, as she did with all the others (what would be the point in assigning importance to something as ephemeral as a dream?), Hermione tossed her blankets aside and got herself out of bed. As she moved from her bedroom down the hall to the kitchen, there was a brief shadowy movement, and she felt the brush of something moving against her leg. She reached down to scratch the charcoal grey cat.

            “Good morning. Hungry, are you?” Hermione asked, as she filled her kettle and set it to boil.

The cat gave a plaintive mewl as she began to place some cat food into a dish. Once finished, she made herself a cup of tea and returned to her bedroom, debating whether or not to go for a run. On the one hand, it was busy at the Library, what with new quarterly journals to be published, among all her other work _and_ her masters; but on the other it was shaping up to be a beautiful morning, and Hermione felt that she was always the better after a run –  clear-headed and capable. She needed that.

It was decided. A quick run, not her usual route, but better than nothing. She scraped her hair up and threw on her running gear, grabbing a banana and a bottle of water on the way out the door, and was off.

It was a bit later than her usual time, and the route was different, but Hermione didn’t care. The sky was a silvery haze, and she could see the powder blue of the sky peeping though like shot silk. She loved to notice the details, the little things.

She knew why.

She was scared to death that she would forget again. She hated thinking of it; she felt it, _knew_ it to be a failure somehow on her part. And it was so confusing, anyway, because she didn’t know what she had forgotten, or if, indeed, she _had_ forgotten anything at all. It was just... there was a sort of... vagueness to her memories of her childhood, her years in school. A dreamy, almost shiny sort of quality to them that simply rang false to her.

Hermione was a pragmatic woman. She liked things to be clear-cut and simple, though she knew more often they were _not_. But she accepted that as a sort of law of life. It could not be helped. But she could not accept this... messiness within herself. It created internal chaos; made her unsure of herself, unwilling to trust her own instincts. It made her so conflicted and uncertain.

The running helped. Most often she could shut out her thoughts and focus on the everything and nothing details of her daily life. The familiar sight of bread deliveries, busses beginning their morning shift, the tint of the morning sky and the chill that always pervaded the air at that hour. She could listen to the thump-thump-thump of her feet hitting the footpath, echoing the beats of her heart, and be utterly calm. Free from the turmoil inside her, from worries and concerns, from loneliness and uncertainty. Feeling only the cold clarity of the wind in her face and hair, the pounding of her heart, the quiet ache in her muscles.

When she got back to her flat, the sun had fully risen and the day had started to warm up into a truly beautiful summer day. She went straight into the bathroom and hopped into the shower. The hot rush of water, the sting of the spray on her shoulders, soothed her cold and tired muscles – something she looked forward to every morning, in fact. It was part of the ritual, somehow; small, but necessary.

After the shower, she dressed and dried her hair before moving to the kitchen to make her breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, washed down with a glass of icy orange juice. As she sat at the table, she pulled her diary over to her to check her workload for the day. She flipped through the pages, but stopped as her fingers brushed against a card...

**DRACO MALFOY**

**Private Consultant**

**-Books & Antiquities-**  
  
---  
  
 

Hermione held the card between her fingers, examining it closely. It was made of a heavy, expensive-looking paper – resembling parchment – and was printed in bold, black lettering. On the back of the card was a number, completely unadorned. She placed the card flat on the table and began tracing her fingertip over the raised edges of the lettering, over his name. Her mind fell to the man in question.

There was something undeniably odd about the whole thing. He knew her. He knew exactly who she was and she... well, she had never seen him before in her life. And she had meant what she said to him the other day; she really would have remembered him...

But that would be a lie considering she spent all of her time trying to ignore the fact that she didn’t feel that she could trust her own memory... And she knew she sounded mad. She knew she did. She didn’t want to believe it. She wanted to be normal. She wanted to be able to sleep, to trust other people, to have friends. But she did not dare speak of any of these things. Even if she did, who would listen? Who would believe her? Absolutely no one, and she would find herself in hospital ‘for her own good’, just like before and she was not having that. _Never again_. So she kept her head down, lived quietly, and pretended that everything was fine.

And everything had been fine. Until him. Draco Malfoy.

It was a nice name, she thought. It sort of rolled off the tongue. He was clearly well-off. And handsome too, with his classical profile and beautiful cheekbones. She usually preferred dark-haired men (the rare times she had attempted dating – it just wasn’t terribly _compelling_ ), but his pale hair and wintry eyes had struck her from the moment she entered the room that day.

But more than that, it was the certainty that he knew her. It was the strange trembling feeling in her stomach she felt – was it instinct? – that he knew something. Something important.

Could she trust him?

That, however, she couldn’t tell. He was unreadable. Charming, certainly, but wholly ambiguous.

She ran her finger once more over the black print of his name, tossing the idea of calling back and forth in her mind, and getting absolutely nowhere. Pushing the problem aside for later, Hermione tucked the card back into the diary and turned her attention to the day ahead. She finished her breakfast and washed up, before brushing her teeth and grabbing her bag. She double-checked everything, as she always did, just to be sure, before she left for the day. Giving the cat a quick belly-rub by way of a goodbye, she dashed out the door into the wakeful streets and blue-bright day, took a deep breath and smiled.

* * *

 

Hermione was having a long day, not that she was complaining. Her morning was, as most of her mornings were, peaceful. Summertime, especially, for obvious reasons. She had about two productive hours of solid quiet, which she had desperately needed to catch up on essential research for Dr. Turner. She had achieved more than she had hoped to, and it meant she would have additional time to work on her masters. From then, with the arrival of Norman – the Late Antiquities professor – followed by Jules, her work for the day mounted spectacularly until she knew it would be at least seven before she could even think about leaving.

She was in the middle of an analysis report on the restoration they were doing on a priceless piece of scrollwork from the Carolingian period. It was one of the first restoration projects that she had been allowed to actively participate in, and she absolutely loved it. She felt responsible for it.

She was deeply engrossed in a paragraph on the difficulties of cleaning the scroll without compromising the delicate illuminations when she was interrupted by a light, melodic voice, with a faint Scottish accent.

            “Come on. Coffee. Now. Do it.”

            “Hello Cassandra.”

            “Come on, little bee, you need a break,” Cassie’s tone became wheedling. “Please, I’ll be lonely, so sad without you.”

            “Fine, fine,” Hermione laughed, as she pushed away from her desk and stood. “Honestly, you’re worse than a child. I can’t be too long, though; I’ve a literal mountain of work.”

            “Darling, you _always_ have a mountain of work,” Cassie rolled her eyes. “I think you secretly want to live here.”

            “Who wouldn’t?” Hermione retorted.

            “Ugh, I give up.” Cassie held up her hands in defeat. “But let’s go, it’s sweltering in here.”

They left the office, heading out into the bright afternoon sun. It was fiercely bright, the sky a dizzying blue, and the heat was such that all anyone wanted to do was find a patch of grass and lay there all day. Instead, they opted for ice-cream and sitting in the shade of a large chestnut tree. There were plenty of people about, enjoying the good weather, tourists and locals alike and the atmosphere was easy, almost lazy.

Lying under the tree, with the closest thing she had to a friend, slurping an ice-cream and enjoying the sun... Hermione felt almost content; the noise inside her quietened for now. Cassandra was a fellow research assistant, a few years older than Hermione. She was friendly and outgoing, and made Hermione laugh, and she was wickedly sharp. Hermione knew that Cassandra would make an excellent friend, and, she supposed, in some ways she was. But she found it so hard to let anyone in, really and truly, to let down the walls she had built around herself that she doubted she even knew how to _be_ a friend to someone.

She couldn’t remember a time where she even _had_ a friend..

However, at that moment, with the sun dappling through the tree, making patterns on her skin, she could pretend for a time that everything might be ok. They chatted idly about their day, and whatever gossip was doing the rounds, and complained about Norman, the bane of the Antiquities department , who was widely acknowledged to be a bit of an arse. It was pleasant, but Hermione, as ever, was conscious of the time and eager to get back to work.

            “...and I told Hector, but would he listen? No. Honestly, Hermione, _that man_ is going to be the death of me,” Cassie finished her rant about her husband with a great huff of breath and a grin on her face.

            “He never listens to you. You’d think he’d have better sense,” Hermione replied.

            “Yes, you think he would, the complete plum.”

            “Still, he’s a very good-looking plum, all the same.”

            “Yes, he is, isn’t he?” Cassie answered dreamily. “Actually, speaking of very good-looking, did you see the guy that came in the other day? Tall, blonde, cheekbones... I caught a look at him when he was getting coffee with Jules. Absolutely gorgeous.”

            “Actually I did. I got to meet him.”

Cassie sat up abruptly before replying.“You did not.”

            “I did. I know his name too. It’s Draco Malfoy,” Hermione answered.

But it was strange... As soon as she said his name aloud, she felt goosebumps settle over her like a fine mist. It wasn’t necessarily a good feeling, but neither was it bad, just strange. A sort of bubbling in her abdomen. She shook her head, trying to shake it off.

            “Draco Malfoy? What kind of crazy pretentious name is that?”

Hermione laughed.

            “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a family name?”

            “Anyway, crazy names aside, what’s this Malfoy guy like? Did you get to talk to him?”

            “Not really. He was here for a viewing of the _Silentiorum_. I just dropped the book up and made polite chit-chat. He seemed nice enough.”

            “The _Silentiorum_ , huh? Well they must really like him. Or his money. It could be that,” Cassie replied.

Hermione chuckled and stood up, dusting herself off a bit.

            “Cass, I have to get back. I need to get this report finished, and I still have all that work from Norman to do. That man is a nightmare.”

            “I knew it was too good to last. I don’t know why you put up with his nonsense.” Cassie rolled her eyes before continuing. “Oh well, all the more ice-cream for me, darling. Have fun,” she laughed.

Hermione headed back to the office, meandering a little to enjoy the sun a few minutes more. If she were being honest, she probably could have stayed a little longer, but she was very reluctant to talk about her encounter with Draco Malfoy, even with Cassandra. She wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. She hadn’t figured out what it all meant.

She arrived back at her desk, and turned her attention to her work. It was absorbing and she needed that, at least until she could get home. However, by the end of the day, her attention had dwindled (something virtually unheard of, for her) and she could not keep the question of what to do about Draco Malfoy. Knowing she would get no further with her work  until she figured out what to do, Hermione packed up her things and headed home, much earlier than expected.

* * *

 

Much later that evening, a cup of strong tea in her hands and the cat on her lap, Hermione was still thinking. She had always been a curious person. She simply had to _know_ about everything. And this was no different. She felt compelled to know. Who was he? How did he know her? What did he know?

In some ways, she thought that she might open a can of worms by calling him. Did she want the small peace she had carved for herself completely shattered? She had worked so hard to be where she was, sitting in her own flat, with a job she adored, and a beautiful cat. What if she ruined all of that?

And then again, maybe he was just messing with her. Maybe someone had put him up to it. It seemed highly unlikely, but it was there, the hint of a suggestion at the back of her mind. Would someone do that to her? Would he?

Perhaps, he really did know something. Perhaps, he wanted to help...

And maybe, just maybe, he might believe her.

And just like that, the decision was made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I'm blown away by the response to the last chapter! Thank you all so much for the all the love you've shown so far!
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed this one :)
> 
> Please do let me know what you think.
> 
> -Millie x


	4. Choice

** CHOICE **

_June 2004_

She had not called. It had been over a week, and she hadn’t called. Draco was frustrated. He was in his study, and it was midmorning, already stiflingly hot. An article – he couldn’t even remember what about – lay abandoned on his desk.

At first, he’d been content to wait, to let her come to him. But it had been more than a week. _Why hadn’t she called?_ He had thought that her natural curiosity would get the better of her, but so far it hadn’t. And increasingly, he found his work, which usually kept him sane, was not holding his interest.

His thoughts, more often, were on _her_.

He would have to seek her out if he truly were going to help her. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this; he had hoped the seed he had planted in her mind would take root. But the week was almost over, and he wasn’t certain he was able to waste any more time. He wanted to use the weekend to find out more about her... get to know her, this altered Hermione Granger.

He had called her countless names in school – mudblood, muggle, bitch– all without ever knowing anything about the girl. He had told her that she didn’t belong; that she wasn’t _worthy_ ; that she wasn’t welcome in the wizarding world... But now, Hermione Granger seemed to be the most intriguing thing he had ever stumbled upon in the Muggle world, possibly the wizarding one too.

It wasn’t her, as such – _was it_?- it was the mystery surrounding her; it was seeing her outside the wizarding world, living as a muggle, fitting in, too, and yet somehow seeming _more_. It was knowing that he had to help her, he _had_ to; that he was, for once, acting for more that himself and doing the _right thing_.

He stretched and stood up from his desk, trying to ignore the burn in his throat and the craving it signified. Some days were harder than others. He knew what type today would be.

His eyes fell on his Pensieve. He thought again, as he had done so many times, of their meeting in Oxford. He’d been taken aback by the sight of her, utterly surprised by her appearance – and yet he shouldn’t have been; Oxford... well, it was _her_ world.

And yet it wasn’t. At least not for him, he now realised.

For all of the times he had called her Muggle, told her she wasn’t a witch, he had never actually thought of her as a person, an entity, outside of the wizarding world. She had always seemed so at home there, understanding the magical world better than most purebloods; so utterly confident that she belonged, regardless of what anyone said.

And he saw now, that she was right.

He’d known it before his run-in with her, but he really _saw_ it now.

And even though she fitted into the Muggle world, had been born into it, she was as much a part of his world. Because she did belong. And that, he knew, was why he could not give up. Why he would have to seek her out: To give her the chance to know the truth of her own nature, to know what she was, what she had done.

Draco had been a coward by nature; not full of that impetuous bravery which had so characterised Potter, Granger and their fellow Gryffindors back in school. He had no experience of such things, except on the outside looking in.

He had run from every fight, every challenge, anything to save his own skin... Only to discover, after the fact, that it was worthless. That _he_ was worthless.

* * *

 

She hadn’t called yet. She had wanted to, really, she did.

But as happened so often, so bizarrely, there was a crisis at the Bodleian. If she were being honest, it was part of what she loved about her job, the small daily chaos of academic life. It was usually something to do with an incorrectly interpreted motif on a Celtic torc, or the discovery of an early-Tudor text which shed new light on the lives of the gardeners of Hampton Court, or something of that nature.

On this particular day, it was that the microfiche copies of a number texts had gone missing. Not the actual texts themselves, mind, just the microfiche copies, but this was enough to send all of Hermione’s department, and half of another into complete disarray.

Jules was tearing around, looking frantic (and in dire need of a cigarette, Hermione knew from experience), and Stanley Pent, the Professor of European Art History, was bellowing down the phone at some poor soul from IT; Norman was fidgeting and complaining, and getting in everyone’s way; and Hermione could see Cassie sniggering into her cup of coffee like a mild-mannered anarchist.

Nothing went to plan that day.

Hermione had planned on getting to work early that day – earlier than usual – to get ahead in some of her work. She had some research to do for Jules, and she had (thankfully) finished helping with Norman’s papers, so it she knew she would be able to give it some real time and attention. She also had a mid-morning appointment with her dissertation supervisor, to discuss her course progress. After that she had hoped to call this Draco Malfoy.

But, as it was, none of that happened.

Hermione didn’t know why she was even surprised.

She had arrived at the Library just after six – a little later than she’d really wanted, but she couldn’t function on an empty stomach – and managed to make good inroads on her research project for Jules, even if it was far from finished. As usual, once people began arriving around eight, things began to get... messy. Deborah from downstairs needed her help in the archive room, Jules wanted a quick chat about the research project, and Cassie, as usual, was demanding her company for coffee.

It had barely hit ten, and Hermione was just settling back in to work when the Great Microfiche Debacle Part IV began. And perhaps it was the fact that this was the fourth time this had happened which made Hermione raise her eyes to the heavens, or perhaps it was the fact that this still managed to plunge the entire department into turmoil, despite it being a relatively small issue.

But, then again, this was what her entire department thrived on. And she would sacrifice a thousand early mornings and late evenings, if it meant she could live and work here, in this place of history and books, and towers and knowledge.

However, as the department propelled itself into a frenzy, with people darting here and there, Hermione found herself having to call her dissertation supervisor, Dr. Lotte Felderman, and cancel their meeting. When she explained the situation to her supervisor, the woman had laughed heartily and said she'd heard all about it.

The rest of Hermione’s afternoon was taken up almost entirely by the growing mess of the Microfiche Disaster. Hermione, who had little interest in the whole thing, kept to the background, and quietly answered the phones and responded to inter-departmental letters and emails, which kept her away from her own work for the entire day.

It was close to five when things finally began to settle down for the day. The issue with the microfiche system was resolved (for now), and Hermione knew she was done for the day. She couldn’t stay on at the Library, as she so often did; she couldn’t take her work home with her, as she always did; she just _couldn’t_.

She was utterly spent.

The thoughts of doing anything other than curling up on her sofa with a good book and a glass of wine... well, she felt she deserved an evening of indulgence.

Packing up her bag, and saying goodbye to no-one, Hermione strode out the door and headed straight for home. Too tired to even notice the details of the glorious summer evening, it wasn’t until Hermione had finished her first glass of wine and was watching the news as she rummaged through the kitchen that she remembered the card sitting in her diary, and the man she had decided to call.

Sighing, Hermione looked over at her clock, and saw that it was almost seven in the evening. She had hoped to simply call and leave a message, rather than talk to him directly on the phone. She wasn’t sure why.

She went to her diary, and retrieved the card, before picking up the telephone. Oddly, she could feel her heart going _thump_ - _thump_ - _thump,_ just as it did on her morning run; and as she dialled the number, it picked up pace, galloping in her chest like a runaway horse.

As the phone began to ring, she tried to calm herself, and instead found herself thinking about his nice, low voice, and wondering if it would sound as nice on the phone, and then realising what she was about, she gave herself a mental slap.

She thought it might end up going to his answering machine. She thought she might get lucky.

And then...

“Hello?”

No, she was never _that_ lucky.

* * *

 

It was evening. The light of the sun hung in the sky like a marigold, filtering through the wide windows, flung open, and the mellow evening air was welcome in the stuffy room. Draco was standing at the window, deep in thought.

He had slipped.

He was onto his fourth glass of Firewhiskey, and it wasn’t even seven. Usually he limited himself to two – though he’d indulged in an extra glass at dinner with Pansy the other night – but this was not good. Despite the beauty of the fine summer evening, the sweetness of the air, Draco felt like he was drowning.

He had waited and waited. He’d given it all day, tried so hard to be patient, and he still held out hope that she would call yet. But as he watched the glorious day start swinging to a close, the still-bright sunshine turning burnished and bronze, casting longer and longer shadows, Draco was losing faith.

He took another sip of his drink, before grimacing and pulling out his wand to vanish the offending beverage. That final taste of alcohol had caused the headache, which had been lingering around the base of his skull for most of the day, to suddenly, poundingly, come to the forefront.

Draco called out to his one remaining house elf.

            “Pipsy? C’mere a minute.”

With a crack, Pipsy appeared, giving a respectful nod.

            “Can you get me some tea, please – a large cup, a proper one.”

            “Of course, Master Malfoy, sir,” she replied with a grin, before disapparating.

On the other side of the penthouse, Draco could hear her crashing about in the kitchen as she prepared the tea and chuckled to himself. Deciding to have a quick shower, he left the study and headed down the hall to the master bedroom.

The shower was a good idea, he admitted, as the powerfully hot spray hit his neck and shoulders. He allowed the water to course over his body for a minute, before wetting his head and reaching for the shampoo. As he lathered up his hair, his headache began to abate.

And then, just as he was rinsing the last of the shampoo out, he heard it... A phone. _His_ phone.

He jerked suddenly as he realised what it could mean. He leapt from the shower, pulling a towel around himself and ran out the door of the en-suite, through his bedroom, then down the hall and skidded into his study. Thankfully, it was still ringing, as he reached out a hand to pick it up. He didn’t even allow himself a moment to think, or even feel. It would do no good at this stage, anyway.

            “Hello?” he said, just a trifle out of breath.

A beat of silence, and then:

            “Hello? Is this... Draco Malfoy?”

There it was. Her voice. Soft, a bit uncertain, and muffled slightly by the line.

            “Yes,” then a pause. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

            “Yes. Well, that is... I think so.”

And then - impossibly, improbably - she laughed, and continued speaking.

            “I’m sorry I didn’t call you before now. I mean, it’s a bit outside office hours, so to speak... I meant to call at lunchtime, you see.”

            “Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” he answered, his headache, all previous anxiety and frustration gone; he simply couldn’t believe that she’d actually done it.

            “So, Mr Malfoy-”

            “Call me Draco.”

            “Right, so... Draco,” she began again, her tone warm, almost amused. “You said that if I wanted to talk to you, I should call... So, talk.”

Draco paused. Well, that was unexpected. And he was perched in his office in nothing but a towel, the shampoo still dripping from his hair. But that was irrelevant. This was his chance. He only wanted to talk to her tonight, but he hoped to meet her, at least once, over the weekend.

            “Well, Hermione – can I call you Hermione? Or would you prefer Granger?”       

            “Hermione is fine. No one calls me Granger. Not since school.”

            “Oh really? Remind me, where was it you went to school?”

            “St. George’s Upper College, in Salisbury. I lived in a place called Smithley Folding – it’s only a small village – about twenty minutes outside Salisbury.”

            “Did you like school?”

            “What’s with all the questions?” She deflected the question with one of her own, tone becoming guarded. “Why do you care if I liked school?”

            “Am I to take that as a no, then?”

            “I didn’t say that-” she began to say but Draco cut her off again.

            “I didn’t really like school either, if you’re interested,” he said.

He could hear her give a faint growl of exasperation at the other end of the line, and he had to suppress a laugh.

            “Fine,” she spoke, sounding resigned. “I don’t like to think of school much. I don’t have the best memories of it. So... where did you go to school?”

            “Just some private boarding school up in Scotland. I doubt you’d have heard of it.”

            “Why didn’t you like it?” she asked. “I always wanted to go to boarding school. I remember reading Enid Blyton when I was younger... _The Twins at St. Clares_ , you know.”

            “It can be a very... difficult place to be. Lonely. Yet you have no privacy. And... my last few years there were not easy...” he was hesitant to say any more to her, especially over the phone.

            “I know that feeling...” she breathed, so softly he almost missed it.

            “Do you?”

            “Yes... though not from school. From somewhere else.”

He paused, unsure whether to ask her where she knew the feeling from, sensing it was important somehow. But her tone seemed to discourage it. She was distant; giving nothing away, leaving him with more questions than answers. But he had to try, didn’t he?

            “Where?”

She sighed, and when she answered her voice had turned cold and murky.“I’d rather not say.”

 

            “I’m sorry,” he said, withdrawing quietly “It was none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”

            “No... It’s fine. It’s not something I like to talk about.”

            “Quite a few things so far you don’t like to talk about. School, and now this... I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Hermione, so tell me, what do you like to talk about?”

            “Books,” she replied immediately, and Draco had to laugh.

It was a good, honest noise, and Draco liked the sound of it. Evidently, Hermione did too, as she let her own gurgle of laughter.

It was perfect. Her answer was so quintessentially Hermione, so much a part of the girl he had known, however little, that he knew that she was not really lost, and that perhaps, one day, she would return.

            “Of course, books. I love them too, you know,” he paused a moment, thinking, _thinking_ , before taking a chance. “They saved me. I was in a dark place, a few years ago now – not long after I left school – and I... was drinking... a lot. But books, well it was a love for them that helped me to fight my way back, when I had too much time on my hands. And I often did.”

There was silence following his speech, and for a moment Draco thought the line had gone dead.

            “Oh.”

* * *

 

Her heart was pounding, so intensely that she could feel her pulse thrumming through her, right down to her fingertips. Hearing Draco Malfoy speak about his loneliness, his drinking; about his own love for books, how that love had saved him – it felt as though his soul was speaking to her own. He knew; somehow, he _knew_. And yet she did not know what to say.

He knew the pain of isolation, the fear and despair, and the warmth and knowledge and companionship of books, just as she did. She knew, so well, the lifeline they offered. She had been saved by them herself. Books were her solace and her saviour. She thought she could trust someone who felt the same way she did about books.

But first, she needed to answer him. Properly, this time.

            “You know... I’m not quite sure what to say to you, because... well, your own experience is so very much like my own. It’s like they are two threads, running parallel to each other.

            “I know that I’d never seen you before Tuesday. But you seemed to know me. How could that be, I wonder.” She sighed. “I want to trust you, Draco, but I have strong reasons for distrusting most everyone I meet.

            “I’d like to tell you some of my own story, if I can, but I would like to trust you first. And I want you to tell me how it is that you knew me, and my name before I spoke it; and how you seemed to expect that I would know you too, and were surprised when I didn’t.

            “So, you tell me some, and I’ll tell you some.”

            “That’s what this comes down to, doesn’t it?” he replied with a sigh, “I know something, and you want to know too. And you _do_ deserve to know. It is your right.

            “But... I can’t tell you over the phone. If I tell you... It will have to be in person. I really can’t do this any other way.

            “And, as for the question of whether to trust me... Well, Hermione, I’ve never given you a reason to, have I? But I will say this: I will do what is right by you – I promise you that. I’m sorry that I can’t answer your questions.”

            “So that’s it then? You want us to meet?” she asked, a sour note creeping into her tone.

            “You want to know?” he asked, in a sudden outburst, sounding exasperated – almost desperate, though not quite. “Because, Granger, you know there is something; you can feel it – call it, I don’t know, intuition, if you will.

“I can give you all the answers you need. I can tell you things you couldn’t even dream,” he continued now in a softer voice, before adding. “But only if you meet me.”

She hesitated, struck by his (admittedly) compelling words; by the low murmur of his voice in her ear, every bit as nice as she had thought it would sound.

It was so risky. She was gambling everything she had if she chose to meet him, everything she had worked for– if she chose to meet him. And she wasn’t sure if she was able to do that.

            “I don’t bite, you know.”

His reply was charming, and silly. And just the push she needed.

            “God, you’re insufferable.”

            “But...?”

            “But, yes, Malfoy, I’ll meet you.”

            “Really?”

            “Yes.”

            “ _Really_?”

            “Yes, you plonker,” she replied, unable to stop herself laughing, even if it was only a touch hysterical, because, really, it was done now, wasn’t it? There was no going back. His laughter joined hers, and she noticed, for the second time, what a good, _friendly_ sort of laugh it was. A nice laugh. A man who, apparently, loved books, understood them, the way she did – and he had a nice laugh. Maybe she really _could_ trust him.

She only hoped he was worth the risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've enjoyed this update. The next few will be up over the weekend.
> 
> Feedback is always welcome :)
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> -Millie x


	5. The Cricket Pavilion

** THE CRICKET PAVILION **

_June 2005_

He’d suggested meeting at the Bodleian, but she refused. In the end, she just couldn’t bear to be there. There was a weariness, deep within her, and it was tied, in part, to her work at the library. It was not that she didn’t love her job.

She did.

But there were times where it was too much, even for her. And though Hermione prided herself on her work ethic, she knew that a weekend off could sometimes be as beneficial as a week spent locked in the New Bodleian.

And so, that was how she found herself getting ready for her meeting with Draco Malfoy, with a whole weekend ahead that was just for her. She rarely allowed herself that. It was dangerous.

After her morning run and shower, she allowed her hair to dry in the warm morning air, and chatted idly to the cat as she laid two outfits on the bed. One was a simple sundress, in soft green, which fell to her mid-calf; the other was a navy knee-length shift dress.

Though she did not want to admit it to herself, she _cared_ how she looked, especially on this day. She was getting ready much too early, if she were being really honest with herself. It was only eight in the morning, and she wasn’t meeting Draco until eleven.

She sighed.

She was nervous, which she had expected, but not for the right reasons, which she had _not_ expected. When she thought about the man she was meeting, her mind went to his pale eyes, and chiselled cheekbones, and how nice his mellow voice sounded on the phone the night before. She should have been thinking of what he was going to talk about with her – if it was what she thought it was, _hoped_ it was – and how she had this creeping feeling that she was on the cusp of something...

But what was it?

She knew that in order to even hear what it was he had to say, she would have to tell him about... well, everything. From the moment she woke up in hospital, all those years ago, to how she had carved out a life for herself here, and why she had to protect it. It was a risk. One, it would seem, she had to take.

Because for years, she had wondered; had questioned her own instincts, her memories, her own sanity, even. She wondered what had happened to her – how exactly was it that she had ended up in that hospital in the first place?- and why did her memories of her life before that feel so _wrong,_ like an ill-fitting coat?

And then _he_ showed up, looking at her as though he knew her, and expecting her to know him too. And he _had_ known her too, she supposed; he knew her name, though that was hardly difficult to find out. It was more that he had assumed she would know who he was. The way he had looked at her. Expecting a response that she couldn’t give.

And maybe he _had_ known her, before... everything. But this was delving into the realm of dangerous thinking, for her. This was giving credence to something she had done her best to ignore. She was so good at ignoring it now; she had been doing it for so long, in fact, that actually thinking about it - really facing it - was distinctly nauseating.

And yet, there was a small corner of her heart which fought against the fierce rational determination with which she ruled her life. She was rigid. She had to be. But she was so tired of fighting against herself; she knew that her soul would forever be restless, if she didn’t do this. _She just had to know_. It was that simple.

And somewhere, deep inside her, she felt something – like a little candle, flickering back to life – a warmth; she couldn’t have said what it was, but it felt comforting – and _good_. There was no choice, not really. And, surprisingly, Hermione was okay with that.

* * *

 

Draco woke up later than usual, feeling refreshed; unburdened, even – which was something, for him. He was surprised, too, that his mood was so good. He was rather anxious about the meeting with Hermione, as a matter of fact. She was so guarded, so reluctant to let him in. _Had she always been this distrustful?_

Draco didn’t think so.

He didn’t blame her though. He wondered what it was that had left her so cautious; whether she somehow inherently knew that her memories, her life, her innate sense of self, had been stolen from her, or was it something else entirely?

He had enjoyed talking to on the phone. She was intriguing, even without the mystery; and funny  – something Draco had not expected. And her intelligence, which had never been in doubt, had been honed and matured from many years of academic study. Her old manner of an over-eager schoolgirl, simply bursting to tell the world what she had learned, was gone; in its place was a woman who was poised, intelligent and, frankly, charming. Her natural reticence, however, made her difficult, challenging... and well, he had never been one to walk away from a challenge.

Still, he knew there was part of him that hadn’t really made the connection; that this girl was the one and same know-it-all he had loathed (Merlin, _that_ slap) in Hogwarts. But then, it had been so many years since school, and he was certainly not the same maladjusted little shit he had been then.

And, in spite of the difficult conversation he knew they were going to have, he was looking forward to seeing her. He wasn’t even sure how he would go about telling her; he could only imagine how bizarre it would sound to her. He doubted she would believe him, but he had proof.

It was damning proof – his memories of her in his Pensieve, not remotely flattering to his younger self. But he would use it if he had to.

He’d rather not.

He felt like he had been given a second chance, of sorts, with her, at least. And for a time, perhaps she wouldn’t look at him as though he was tainted; maybe he would see that tempting, curious warmth in her brown eyes again. He hoped that he did.

Not wishing to ponder it too much more, mostly because he felt he knew the reason anyway, Draco stood and went to his wardrobe. It was almost time to go.

* * *

 

They met at the University Parks, as they had agreed the previous night on the phone. After they had organised the details of their meeting, Hermione found herself inclined to linger. There was something she liked about Draco; he was funny and garrulous, intelligent too, and she found that she liked listening to him. And it was not just about that day in the New Bodleian, or what she thought she might learn from.

It was, she had supposed as she made her way to the Parks, to do with how he talked about books; and how he listened to her, _really_ , listened to what she’d said – and respected it. And though she worked with many people who loved and worked with books just as much as she did, it seemed to her that they didn’t understand – not the way he did.

They had saved him, he’d said.

That had stayed with her, like a rallying cry for her thoughts, when she was doubting herself, her decision. It had only been a handful of hours since her conversation with him the previous evening, but another restless night and a mind full of doubts meant that she had passed the night turning over the words of their conversation in her head.

In a way she was grateful, as she strolled down Banbury Road towards the Parks, that she had spent most of the night awake, mulling over the phone call, the one chance she had granted herself. She knew she could so easily have talked herself out of it, and yet somehow, miraculously, she hadn’t.

Hermione turned the corner and crossed over to the Parks, feeling butterflies stirring to life somewhere under her ribs. She checked her watch as she entered the park; on time, but she wanted to be early. Picking up her pace, (but not too much – it was rather too hot already for that) she made her way toward the cricket pavilion, where she had told Draco she would be waiting.

When it came into view, she could see that there was a cricket practice on, which made her smile. She liked cricket. It was hard not to, living in Oxford. There weren’t many people there, watching the practice – which she had been counting on somewhat – but there was a match on tomorrow, she knew.

She rarely watched the matches, but preferred the quiet dedication of the training sessions; the practiced throws of the bowlers, the resounding crack as batters sent the balls soaring across the field. It was a nice place to be alone with her thoughts, at least for the moment. Taking a seat at the pavilion, Hermione sat down in the glorious morning sun and prepared to wait for Draco Malfoy.

* * *

 

She was watching cricket.

He had arrived just a few minutes after eleven, scanning the area around the pavilion for her, wondering had the unthinkable happened, and that she was late, or worse, that she hadn’t come. But before he had even really had time to consider such a thing, he spotted her.

Watching cricket, of all things.

Though, to be fair, they _were_ at a cricket field.

He approached her slowly, leisurely. Her face was relaxed, with heavy-lidded eyes and chin raised to enjoy the warmth of the summer sun. There was a faint flush on her cheeks, and her lips were curved, oh, so gently into a smile, the barest hint of one. He felt the clouding of attraction, deep in his chest, and he couldn’t say he was surprised.

            “Hermione.”

She turned and looked up at him, squinting slightly in the sunlight, her nose scrunching and bringing her freckles, delicate little things, into sharp relief. Then she gave him a bright smile, before standing. She was wearing a green dress; it was longish, with thin green straps, and it skimmed her form, lingering slightly on her hips and the gentle curve of her breasts.

            “Hello Draco.”

            “Cricket?” he couldn’t help but ask.

            “I like it,” she shrugged.

            “How are you?”

            “Good, and you?”

            “I’m alright.”

There was a pause, and then Hermione spoke.

            “Do you like ice cream?”

            “What?”

            “Ice cream – you know it, don’t you? Nice to enjoy on a sunny day, I think.”

He smirked, enjoying her wide-eyed sarcasm.

            “Funny.”

And then, to his surprise, she shot him an answering smirk – almost a mirror image of his own, in fact. It bothered him how much he liked it.

            “Let me buy you an ice-cream cone. There’s place not too far from here.”

            “Well, if you insist.”

They walked over to a kiosk and Hermione ordered two cones – vanilla, with a chocolate flake each, before handing one to Draco, then she paid the girl behind the counter.

            “Shall we walk back over to the pavilion? It’s a quiet spot, and good for enjoying ice cream,” she said, as she slurped at her cone. “We can talk there.”

They sat back down by the pavilion and finished their ice cream in silence, by unspoken agreement. Draco watched the cricket idly. It looked very simplistic to him; only one ball, no brooms and rather a lot of running around, he thought.

He cast another look at Hermione, wondering how to proceed, but he was surprised again when she turned to him and spoke.

            “So... I’m not certain how we ought to begin,” she smiled faintly, though those big, dark eyes of hers looked nervous.

Draco gave her a wry glance, before replying. He knew he would have to tread carefully here; wondering how was he to explain to a woman in her twenties that she was, in fact, a witch, who apparently had no memories of actually _being_ one.

            “Well... why don’t you begin by telling me about how you ended up here in Oxford?”

She looked at him sharply, her defences flying back up again, instinctively, it seemed.

“Why? Why would you want to know that?”

He frowned, as he thought about how best to answer the question, all of her questions – and she had so many of them.

            “Hermione, I think I need to tell you everything I know. Before I do though, I need you to trust me, and to know that – no matter how insane it sounds – _I am telling you the truth_. I need you to believe me when I say that. Can you do that? At least try to?”

He watched as her eyes widened, and though she tried to hide it, panic flared to life in their depths, and he half-expected her to flee. But she didn’t, in the end, and instead, she nodded, very slowly.

            “Right, so I suppose the best place to start is, oh, at least ten years ago now. When I was eleven, I was sent to a boarding school in Scotland, as I told you last night. Hogwarts. And when I was eleven, I met you.”

            “What?” she gasped, her expression shocked. “No, I’m sorry, Draco, but I didn’t go to school with you. I know I didn’t.”

            “Ah, but you did, Hermione,” he replied gently. “We were in the same year; we shared classes together-”

            “But _how_? How could this be? I don’t remember _any of this_. I don’t remember _you_! And I certainly didn’t go to Hogwards, or whatever you called it...” her voice was low and almost hysterical, but suddenly it changed, and her tone became dreamy. “ _Hogwarts..._ you mentioned that name to me on Tuesday, didn’t you? Why have I never heard of this school before?”

Draco sighed. He had known this would be hard, but he hadn’t counted on the horrified, near-agonized expression on her face; he hadn’t expected the wave of sympathy, sorrow even, that he’d felt as he watched her struggle with what he was trying to say.

            “That would be because it is hidden from the world in general, and for a reason – a very good one, too,” he paused, looking her in the eye, calm and sincere. “In 1991, you were accepted into, and attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You, Hermione, are a witch, just as I am a wizard.”

She gazed at him, utterly dumbfounded. Draco continued on.

            “I know this might be hard for you to process, but I promised you I would not lie, and I promise you now, this is the truth.”

Her expression did not change, though she had begun blinking, somewhat absently, her face pale. Draco felt horribly awkward. He had so little experience with sensitivity, never mind tact, that he’d had no idea how to approach this with her. And clearly, he wasn’t doing much of a job of it.

But finally, she spoke.

* * *

 

_You, Hermione, are a witch._

If she had been in her right mind, she would have laughed. But she wasn’t, apparently.

Instead she’d felt a strange resonance at his words, improbable as they sounded. She couldn’t help but ponder that strangeness within her. It was as though something elemental, deep inside her, had cried out in return, as though recognising a kindred spirit. And perhaps it was...

_But how? How on earth was she a witch? What did that even_ mean _?_

            “I’m sorry,” she began, shaking her head, as though to clear it. “But what do you mean, I’m a witch? I mean, there’s no such thing as witches; not _real_ ones, anyway.”

            “It means that you’re a witch. You can do magic. Magical blood flows in your veins, same as mine,” he replied, looking utterly calm, entirely secure; arrogant, even.

            “But how?” she asked again, so utterly perplexed that she was nearly breathless. “I mean, I’ve never done anything magical in my life! It’s just- it’s just not possible!”

            “Of course it is,” he answered, as though it were just that simple. “You must have performed accidental magic, at some point in your life – particularly when you were a child. You wouldn’t have known how to control it then. Think about it for a minute, really think about it; it’s there, I promise.”

She looked at him sceptically, rather uncertain now, of how far she should take this. This whole thing was, well, insane. And, she was rather frightened of insanity.

            “Please,” he tried again, and she saw, somewhere in his silvery eyes, a note of desperation. “I’m not trying to hurt you, I’m trying to help.”

She looked at him, taking her time about it, assessing him. His expression was open and sincere, his eyes clear, and he (so far, anyway) had done nothing to make her distrust him. So she took a deep breath, and closed her eyes, turning her thoughts towards the past. It was something she always tried to avoid. But it was time to look back, and really _see_ this time.

She thought, for the first time in a long while, about her parents; about the house she grew up in; her parents’ dental practice in Salisbury. She remembered the primary school she’d attended; her friend Claire, from so long ago; the piano lessons she’d attended, and hated... And then suddenly, there it was.

Her eyes flew open, and met Draco’s gaze, grey with anxiety.

            “I remembered something,” she said, frankly surprised.

            “And what is it?” he asked, sounding jubilant.

            “I was at piano lessons," she told him. "I would have been maybe... six, seven? I hated it. I love to listen to the piano, but only when played by someone else. But I hated those lessons. The woman who taught me, Mrs Standish, was an awful old woman, and she scared me. She used to shout at me... oh, she was horrible.

            “Anyway, I was at a lesson, not long after my grandmother had died, and I really had no desire to be there,” she turned to look Draco, “I was very close to my grandmother, you see, and I was very unhappy after she died.

“I’m sorry, I’m rambling, I know.” She shook her head with a rueful smile. “Well, Mrs Standish used to keep a metronome on top of her piano, and on this day, it was swaying back and forth. And Mrs Standish... she kept shouting at me, insisting that I _concentrate_... and I just kept looking at this metronome; I couldn’t take my eyes off it.” She paused and then went on in a muted voice. “And then... well, I remember this feeling of great pressure in my head, a sort of buzzing. And then, the metronome exploded. Right there, on top of the piano.

“Mrs Standish refused to teach me after that. She called me an ‘unnatural child’ and refused to even look at me from that day on,” she finished, with a half-hearted laugh.

“Well, my dear Hermione, that was magic,” he said, seeming pleased.

“Not coincidence?”

“You doubt it?”

“Naturally.”

He chose to respond with a quote, which Hermione felt was just showing off.

“ _Our doubts are traitors,_

_and make us lose the good we oft might win,_

_by fearing to attempt_.”

It was familiar, though she couldn’t immediately place it. It was Shakespeare, she knew, but beyond that, she couldn’t remember. That frustrated her slightly, though it was hardly a shock, as her dislike of Shakespeare warred with her natural competitiveness.

“Shakespeare, of course, but from where?” she asked, because, well, she _had_ to know.

“ _Measure for Measure_ ,” he replied, looking rather smug.

“There’s no need to look quite so pleased with yourself, you know,” she told him, a hint of lemon in her tone.

He laughed outright, and looked thoroughly delighted.

            “It’s nice to know you haven’t changed, Granger.”

“Granger? I thought I asked you not to call me that, _Malfoy_.”

“Music to my ears," he replied, positively giddy now. "You know," he added conversationally, "you used to call _me_ by my last name in school,” 

“Were we friends?”

“Not exactly...” he trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

“Oh...”

And with that, the crushing reality of the situation, the very reason they had met, collapsed in on top of the lightened atmosphere between them.

            “I’m not saying I believe you, you know,” she said, as she shot him a _look_.

            “I know,” he sighed.

            “I’m not saying I don’t believe you, either.”

            “Really?”

            “Yes,” she replied. “But... God, Draco, I’ve so many questions; it feels like I’ll never be done asking.”

            “Well, let me answer some of them. If I can, that is.”

            “You’re sure? I do have rather a few questions.”

            “I can imagine,” he replied dryly. “but, really, ask away. I’ll answer as best I can.”

She had to pause for a moment to gather her thoughts. She felt so scattered, unbalanced – and she hated it. Her heart was pounding, and she honestly did not know whether to believe anything coming out of this man’s mouth. And yet, every instinct inside her was crying out in response to him. She needed _proof_.

            “Can you show me?” she asked.

            “Show you what?”

            “Magic. Show me something.”

            “I really shouldn’t. Not out in the open, anyway.”

But this made her doubt him, and his motives again.

            “Why?” she frowned at him.

            “Really?” he asked, and, at her nod, he continued. “Well, why do you think you’ve never heard of us? Look at history; witches and wizards weren’t exactly treated very well, were they? Prosecuted, hunted, and regular people, with no magical abilities at all, often paying the price for it instead. But, more than that, it’s safer to keep it a secret. And that is what we do. There are very strict rules about using magic in front of Muggles-”

            “Muggles?”

            “Non-magical people. But, using magic in a very open and public place is a serious offense, and this is as public as you can get,” he paused, and seemed to be thinking for a moment and she watched as a wicked grin crept onto his face. “But... that only applies if you get caught. And, well, you’re not going to tell on me, are you?”

            “You mean... you’ll show me?” she squeaked.

            “Yes,” he laughed.

Then he pulled out a long, thin piece of polished wood.

A wand.

_I had one of those once_ , she thought absently, in the dim recesses of her mind, as she watched him. He gave a quick look around the park, but there was no one nearby, and certainly no one interested in the two people, sitting close together, ostensibly watching a cricket practice.

            “Take your watch off and put it at the end of the bench,” he said.

Hermione did as she was bid and returned to her seat, wondering what he would do with it, if it would even work.

And then:

            “ _Accio_ ,” he muttered, so low she could barely hear him, as he pointed his wand towards the watch.

And then, just like magic, (and she supposed it really must have been) the watch came flying across the bench and straight into Draco’s waiting hand. He turned to her then, a small smirk on his face.

She could only gaze back up at him, completely and utterly, and not for the first time, speechless.

Speechless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter for you lovely people!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the last update. Thank you to everyone who stopped by for a read :)  
> And thank you to everyone who dropped some kudos or a comment to tell me your thoughts - feedback is always welcome!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this one too!
> 
> -Millie x


	6. A Cup of Tea

** A CUP OF TEA **

_June 2005_

            “Oh my God.”

Her voice was barely a whisper.

Then she was silent for a long time, and Draco wondered if he had broken her.

He was reluctant to touch her, wary of her reaction; and as he watched her, he noted her clenched fists, white and bony, and the absence of expression on her face, the glazed look to her eyes. Her watch was still clasped in his hand, with its sensible leather strap and weathered face. Reaching out to her slowly, he uncurled her fingers and placed the watch into her warm hands.

Looking slightly dazed, she turned her eyes down towards Draco’s hand, almost tangled with her own, and he pulled his hand away again, quickly, leaving only the old watch behind. Her eyes widened as realisation dawned, and she brought the watch up to her face, examining it carefully. She narrowed her eyes in concentration, occasionally shooting glances his way, though he couldn’t read them – and cursed himself for not knowing.

            “That actually happened didn’t it?” she asked him, her voice sounding hoarse.

            “Yes.”

            “How did you do it?”

            “With a Summoning Charm,” he replied, deliberately obtuse.

She frowned at him, the moment stretching out between them, frustration clear in her treacle-black eyes. He noticed that under her light tan, there were purple shadows beneath those lovely eyes. Then she broke the moment by burying her face in her hands and groaning.

            “Do you have any idea how bloody difficult this is for me to take in?” came her voice, slightly muffled by her hands.

            “No. I’ve never been in your situation,” he answered. “I’ve always known about magic; I can’t imagine life without it, actually.”

This drew her out of her hands a bit; her eyes emerged over the tops of her fingers, and then finally she lowered her hands altogether. Draco preferred it when he could see her face. Easier to read.

            “What do you mean?”

He sighed.

He was getting dangerously close to a subject he did _not_ want under discussion – his pureblood heritage. He resisted the urge to snap at her, to push her away. It would be so easy, he knew. This unlikely bond they had formed was fragile. He could destroy it with only a handful of scornful words. And that was why he ignored the impulse. Because after it had passed, and words had been spoken, he knew he would bitterly regret it.

This was his _chance_.

            “I was born in the wizarding world. My parents were both from very well-established magical families. A magical life is all I had known, until...” but here he trailed off, thinking of the war; the violence and bitterness, the casualties and consequences, the _losses_ , so many of them.

“Well, until I finished school, and left home,” he continued, gathering his thoughts. “I lived in France for, oh, almost five years, and I still do – that is, I divide my time between London and France. But it wasn’t until then that I had any experience of the Muggle world.”

“You’re actually telling me the truth, aren’t you? This is real. _Oh my God_... Did my parents know?”

“Well, as far as I know, yes. The school sends a teacher out to explain and deliver the Hogwarts acceptance letter. So yes, your parents would have known,” he answered her, noting her use of the past tense when speaking of her parents.

“This is... this is _unbelievable_...” she whispered, her face filled with an unrecognisable emotion.

“Is it? Is it really so unbelievable, Hermione?” Draco found himself asking. “You’re special. You have to know that.”

The words left his mouth before he had even registered their meaning. Had he thought about it at all, he wouldn’t have said it. But then she turned her whole body towards him, and looked at him, and Draco found, on second thoughts, maybe it was a good thing, after all.

The look she gave him was filled with heartbreak and confusion, but behind it, in the glimmering darkness of her eyes (what was it about them that so captivated him?) he could see a warmth, a sort of gentle admiration, and trust.

He had been waiting for so long, it felt, for her to trust him.

            “Thank you Draco,” she offered, a tremulous, half-smile on her lips.

And this time it was she who stretched out a hand to him

But as she did so, Draco caught a flash of colour on her arm and, reflexively, he caught her wrist in a gentle hold. Her gaze clashed with his, a question on her lips. He turned her wrist over, exposing the soft underside, and his eyes were caught, irresistibly, by the scar on Hermione’s arm, and felt the world around him fall still, and then disappear entirely.

Once, a long time ago – was it? – he had watched his mad bitch of an aunt carve the word Mudblood into this girl’s arm, and listened to her screams as they bounced off the walls of the dining room, mingling horribly with Bellatrix’s chilling cackle like something from a nightmare.

Later, after the Battle of Hogwarts, he’d seen the scar it had left. She’d been sitting in the Great Hall with a weeping Ginny Weasley, in her ripped Muggle clothes, and he had seen it; the spiky letters, red and lurid; hastily healed, and like brand on her arm. Mudblood. He remembered, wondering would it ever fade away.

But now, it would never fade away. No, because Hermione, in her ignorance, had turned this hateful scar into a thing of beauty.

Instead of the angry red scarring he remembered, there was beautifully inked lettering. True, he could see some of the original scars, a faint hint under the mulberry ink, but Draco was too awed to care. Surrounding the lettering, entwined with it, was a riot of tiny white and blue flowers. Forget-me-nots, ironically enough.

Unable to help himself, he found his fingers tracing over the word, again and again. Mudblood. An awful, ugly, derogatory word. And somehow, she had transformed that.

The day she had been tortured and sliced up at the Manor had never left him, along with so many other vile memories, visiting him in nightmares that left him soaked in his own chilly sweat and sick to his stomach. But now, he wondered if he could ever hear that word again without thinking of her tattoo.

* * *

 

She couldn’t take her eyes off his hands.

They were cool, but soon grew warm as he held her arm and gently brought his fingertips over the surface of her tattoo. It was rhythmic; back and forth, gentle and soothing. The frantic thrumming of her heart began to slow, and the ringing in her ears began to fade. She could feel herself take a breath, and then another one, and another.

Then she tore her eyes away from his hands and up to his face.

The expression on his face was raw; his eyes looked like mercury, ever-changing with a myriad of emotions; his face set, first, in grim lines and then shifted, lightened – eyebrows raised, eyes widened, lips parted. He looked stunned. And lost, quite lost, in thought.

And suddenly, something, for Hermione, clicked into place.

And she couldn’t have held the question in, even if she wanted to.

            “What does it mean?”

He looked at her then, the first time in a number of minutes, looking as though he was only just becoming aware of his surroundings again.

            “What?”

She moved her arm from his grasp. He gave it up willingly, with a self-conscious shrug.

_It doesn’t suit him_ , she thought absently to herself as she watched him.

            “My tattoo. What does it mean?” she asked again, determined this time to hear the answers.

She could see him attempting to gather his composure, realising, for the first time, just how much he had dropped his charismatic and confident veneer.

And then he raised an eyebrow, and shot a smirk at her.

For some reason, it made her palm itch to slap him, but she resisted the urge. She could see his conflict, reflected in the stormy silver of his eyes.

            “I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, but it lacked conviction, and he knew it.

            “Don’t lie.”

            “I’m not.”

            “ _You said you wouldn’t lie to me_ ,” she bit out, losing patience with his obvious dishonesty.

He scowled at her in response.

            “Malfoy, tell me what it means.”

Still he hesitated, and Hermione finally lost her cool.

            “You know what it means. I know you do. Don’t you dare try and deny it. Do you know... God, I’ve spent six years, _six years_ , Draco, wondering what the hell that thing on my arm was, what it meant; knowing that there was something wrong with me. No one, and I mean _no one_ has ever reacted to my arm like you just did. So don’t tell me lies about something that- that- that is part of me!

            “Please,” she finished, in a softer voice, allowing the last of her walls to come down. “I’ve felt so lost, for so long. I feel like I’m finally beginning to understand myself. I need to know. Please, Draco.”

He looked at her with the eyes of a drowning man. But he answered her, in the end.

            “It means dirty blood,” and his voice was no more than a sigh, utterly weary. “It’s a slur, an insult intended for witches and wizards of Muggle descent. In the wizarding world, it is one of the most unpleasant and offensive things you can say to a fellow witch or wizard.”

There was a moment of blank silence in Hermione’s head following his speech as she attempted to accept the implications of his words. _What kind of place was this magical world_ , she wondered, _if it even exists_.

            “So why is it written into my arm? Does every... Muggle-born receive this treatment?” she asked, her voice low and bitter, even to her own ears.

Draco closed his eyes, looking agonized.

            “No... it was- it was different, for you.”

But, it seemed, he wouldn’t say any more.

            “Why?”

Hermione flung the next question at him like a whip.

            “Hermione. I want to...  I know you want to know. And I want to tell you. But...” he groaned in frustration. “ _This is so bloody hard_! “ He took a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “The story behind that scar on your arm is such a long one. It goes back such a long time,” he sighed. “Before you and I were even born.”

            “So tell me.”

            “Not here.”

            “Oh, for God’s sake!” she cried out in sheer frustration.

They were getting nowhere, both of them so guarded and afraid to speak, restrained by their own personal demons. Their conversation had been halting and meandering, a maddening discourse. If she wanted him to talk, she would have to let him in.

            “Fine,” she spoke again. “I live only a few minutes from here. Let’s go. I’ll make us some tea. Frankly, I could do with a large cup.”

He shot her a look of surprise as she stood, then he followed suit.

            “Really? I thought you were going to leave me here,” he said, sounding relieved. “Or perhaps hit me. Wouldn’t have been the first time, would it?”

            “Wait, what?” Hermione asked, somewhat alarmed.

            “Yeah...” he grinned at her as they started walking, and Hermione was struck then by how very handsome he was. “In our third year. You hit me, in the face, no less. Though, in your defence, I thoroughly deserved it.”

And then, the bubbling sensation within Hermione, swelled and expanded until she could contain it no longer, and the laughter came pouring out. She laughed a lot with Draco, she noticed. And that was certainly no bad thing. There had been a shocking lack of it in her life so far.

            “What did you do?”

            “Something I’m quite ashamed of, now that I’m older, and able to appreciate the gravity of the situation I created. You slapped me, or rather... punched, I suppose, to inform me of your disgust with my actions.”

            “What a charmingly ambiguous answer. You’re very good at that. Were you a politician in a previous life?”

He gave an abrupt shout of laughter at that.

            “Certainly not. I am not much of a fan of politics. It’s a dirty business, and frankly, I’m not terribly likeable,” he replied.

            “I like you, well enough, I suppose,” she found herself saying, though she knew it was rather an understatement.

            “Damning praise, but you may want to withhold your judgement until you’ve heard everything.”

            “Fine,” Hermione rolled her eyes at him, and his propensity for ridiculously vague statements. “Well, why don’t you tell me a bit about where you grew up? Or will you have to kill me if you tell me that top-secret information?”

            “Sarky little thing, aren’t you?” he replied, a curious gleam in his eye, one that made little flutterings break out in Hermione’s tummy.

            “Oh, well, I do try,” she said, as they turned a corner.

            “Well, I grew up in Wiltshire,” he began. “My parents, as I said, came from two ancient magical families. We were always very wealthy; I never wanted for anything, as a child. My mother liked to spoil me – her only child.

“My father was a hard man, intolerant, and proud, too He despised weakness. He taught me, growing up, that I was the very best.” He paused. “That everyone and everything was less than dirt beneath my feet. I was to _be_ the best. At everything.

“I was a constant disappointment to him. Of course, now I’m older, I can say with certainty that he was a disappointment to me too.”

“That’s sad,” Hermione replied, not entirely sure what else to say. I’m sorry. Your father should be someone to look up to,”

“I did, once,” he told her with a curious kind of honesty in his eye. “I wanted to please him, so badly. I could never have lived up to what he wanted me to be. I know it now, at the very least, even if I didn’t then.”

She stopped then, and reached out for his arm, before looking up into his face. There were deeply etched lines on his face that contradicted the casual, almost careless tone he used. His ashen eyes were enigmatic, like mirrors.

            “We’re here,” she said, quietly, indicating the house they had stopped in front of. “I’m on the second floor. You still want to come up? You look as though you could use a cup of tea too.”

* * *

 

They were standing outside a modest house, with a yellow door, on a modest street. It took him a moment to shake the creeping edge of bitterness from himself. It was the kind of bitterness that tasted like regret, sometimes shame, and was only chased away by the sweet kiss of alcohol.

            “...You still want to come up? You look like you could use a cup of tea,” she was saying.

            “Yeah...” he replied, giving her a brief smile – a genuine one. “Though, I think I could probably do with something stronger.”

            “I know how you feel. Knock me down with a feather, and all that,” she said, as she opened the front door.

They entered a dark and rather poky hall, which Hermione completely ignored, heading straight for the stairs. Draco followed her up, trying (and failing) not to stare at her beautifully curved arse as she sauntered up the first flight of stairs, and then the next.

Her flat, just like the building, was modest but not unattractive. The door opened onto the sitting room, which much to his surprise, was bright and fairly large, and connected to a small kitchen. And though the walls were painted a bland magnolia, Hermione had decorated the place with a warmth and charm that matched the woman he was beginning to know.

            “So...” she began, looking around awkwardly. “Tea? I’ll make us a pot.”

            “Sure,” he answered, as he mooched about the sitting room, examining the unmoving Muggle pictures. There weren’t very many. Two or three of her and her parents, and a handful of Hermione with friends – a birthday, perhaps, and her graduation. Then, from behind, he heard the inquisitive mewl of a cat, and he turned to see a silver tabby prowl into the room.

            “Hello, there,” Draco spoke, bending down to stroke the cat, his voice low and warm.

It sniffed his hand, inspecting it, in that rather disdainful manner that cats have, before permitting him to run his hand along its back. He occupied himself in this way for a few minutes, while Hermione made the tea. By the time she had returned to the sitting room, he and the unknown cat had progressed to a proper belly rub.

            “Good grief, Min, you’re an awful hussy,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes as she placed the tea tray onto the coffee table.

            “Min?” Draco had to ask, raising a brow.

            “Oh, yes. Well, her name is really Minerva, but it’s such a mouthful, she became Min after about two minutes.”

He burst out laughing at this; couldn’t have held it in for the world. She looked at him owlishly in response, while the cat nipped at his hand in protest.

            “She’s really called Minerva?”

            “Yes. That’s the name she had when I got her, and I liked it. What’s so funny?”

            “We had a professor at Hogwarts called Minerva McGonagall. I would wager a guess she was your favourite teacher.”

Hermione’s face lit up at this piece of information, and he knew that more questions would be forthcoming.

            “Really? What did she teach?”

            “Transfiguration,” he replied, and then, at her inquiring look, he continued. “The art of transforming one object into another using magic. It was one of the harder subjects, but one we all had to suffer through. You were one of the best in our year at it.”

            “Oh my... That sounds fascinating. Can you show me?”

            “Of course,” he grinned.

He’d expected that. He pulled out his wand and picked up one of the mugs off the tray. Then he turned it upside-down and set it back onto the coffee table, before pointing his wand at it.

            “ _Tintibulus_!” he said, and watched as the cup transformed into a silver bell.

            “Oh my goodness!” Hermione squeaked, looking like a child on Christmas morning, her eyes alight with curiosity.

Draco remembered that look. She carried it with her still. He’d loathed it in school, but he found himself searching for it in their conversations now, like a ship on the horizon. He wanted to show her more, show her all of it, if only he could keep that look of undiluted joy on her face for a few moments more.

She had picked up the bell, and was examining it, turning it over in her hands, before finally holding it up and giving it a little shake. A delicate sound came ringing out, and she gasped with delight.

            “I can’t believe this is real... I just can’t,” she was murmuring, “ _Magic_. Honestly. Me, a witch...”

And then her eyes shot up from the bell to him, and her gaze became suddenly more hesitant, and Draco wanted to know why.

            “What is it?” he asked.

            “Can I- that is... Do you think...”

            “Spit it out Granger.”

            “Could you show me how to do that?”

She spoke quickly, as though she was certain he would say no, and that by getting it over quickly would be less crushing.

            “Sure,” he said, wondering what he was getting himself in for.

In some ways, it was well worth it, as she beamed at him and came to sit next to him on the sofa.

            “Now, I have to warn you. This wand won’t perform as well for you, as it would for me. Wands are like that,” he added for her benefit. “They choose the witch or wizard.”

            “ _Really_? How does that work? This is all so fascinating, Draco. You can’t imagine... I feel like a child again...” she said, looking up at him, her eyes shining like dark, round coins.

            “Wandlore is tricky,” he explained. “Wandmakers are very protective of their methods, of their entire craft, so not much is known about it. I don’t honestly know what calls a wand to a particular witch or wizard. They refer to it as ‘elementary magic’, but very little is known about wandlore, outside of those practicing it.

            “Now, would you like to try? We could begin with a charm, something simple enough, perhaps a levitation charm, or something like that.”

She nodded eagerly.

            “Good,” he continued. “So, we need something for you to levitate – something light and small, nothing terribly complex in structure. We used feathers in school, you know, so something like that, if you have it.”

Her brow furrowed momentarily, then cleared again before she answered.

            “Would a ribbon do?”

            “Should be fine.”

She stood then and left the room, heading down the hall towards her bedroom. She returned after few moments with a length of patterned ribbon.

            “This ok?” she asked, handing it over to him.

            “Perfect,” he replied, running it through his fingers, his mind drifting – briefly- to her hair; the soft, whimsical brown curls that sat like a cloud on her shoulders; wondering what it would be like to run his fingers though-

  _Enough, for now_.

            “First I’ll show you how,” he went on, “and explain a little bit about the charm itself, and then you can have a try. That okay with you?”

Again she nodded, a touch impatiently he noted with errant amusement. He set the ribbon onto the table, and picked up his ward.

            “ _Wingardium Leviosa_!” he said, giving his wand the characteristic ‘swish and flick’ associated with the charm.

The ribbon began to rise, slowly, off the table, curling and manipulating itself into elegant spirals as it began to float above the table. Hermione’s eyes were wide, lips parted, watching the ribbon enthralled.

Draco permitted himself a smug smile. It was rather something to have Hermione Granger, Brightest of Her Age, looking amazed by his spellwork. Though, under the circumstances, it didn’t speak much for his talents at all. Still, he admitted, it _was_ a nicely performed charm, even if it was basic.

            “So, first thing you need to know is wand movement,” he began, startling her from her reverie. “Each move you make with your wand, when coupled with any incantation, has value and meaning; it corresponds to the spell you are attempting to perform. Deviating from the movement can have disastrous consequences.

            “Next, are the words themselves. It’s equally important to get your wording right. And I’m not just talking about saying the correct spell. It’s also about the inflection, the pronunciation, the intonation.

            “Finally,” he said, handing her his wand, which she took with a sort of trembling wonder, “you must have _intent_. You must want that ribbon to soar into the air. You understand? Remember, your magic only wants a means to appropriately channel itself,” he added, nodding at the wand in her hand. “You must take each of these things, and unite them to successfully perform the spell. Any spell, really.”

She gave him a fervent look, her intensity palpable.

            “I’m ready. Show me.”

He stood, and pulled her up after him, then picked up a pen from the table, brandishing it like a wand.

            “Right,” he nodded. “The _Leviosa_ charm is grounded by the basic ‘swish and flick’ movement, like this”- he stopped a moment to show her the movement, slowly first, and then faster, more fluidly-“you see? The ‘swish’ part of the movement needs to have a lightness - a sort of deftness to it - that imitates flight, and then the ‘flick’ needs to come with both firmness and precision. You must put all of your deliberation into it. Try now.”

Her first movements were hesitant but after a few tries, he could see her latent talent, her instinctive skill as a witch begin to emerge.

            “Good. Now, the words. _Wingardium Leviosa_ – say it with me, nice and slow – _Wing-gaaard-iium Levi-oh-saah_ , that’s it. And again.” He listened as the sounded it back to him, “Good. So again, the inflection on _Wingardium_ must be smooth, soaring, and light - matching it to the ‘swish’ part of the movement; and the _Leviosa_ must be faster, more determined, more finite. Bring the words and movement together with sufficient intent and determination, and the ribbon should lift off the table.

            “Now, I warn you, this may not work the first time; you are using my wand, after all, but you also haven’t practiced magic in a number of years, which may be a factor. So don’t be put off if it doesn’t work the first time,” he finished with an encouraging smile. “Have a try.”

He looked down at her and watched as she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and pointed the wand at the ribbon.

            “ _Win-wingardium Leviosa_ ,” she cried out, giving the wand an elegant wave, her face anxious and uncertain.

A perfect movement, really, Draco had to say. The wording, however, was wrong.

* * *

 

            “You’re saying it wrong,” he was telling her. “It’s not _Levio-sah_ , it’s _Levi-oh-sa_...”

And then, somewhere within her, like the rippling of a pool in a quiet cave, came an echoing reply to his words. ‘ _You’re saying it wrong! It’s Wing-_ gar _-dium Levi-o-sa, make the ‘gar’ nice and long.’_ It was her own voice, sounding terribly young; loud, and bossy, and tense, even to her own ears.

_Good Lord, what was that?_

            “Hermione? Hermione? Are you okay?”

Draco was looking at her, a faint crease of concern on his brow.

            “I... um... I don’t know, actually.”

            “What happened?”

            “I... I think... I think I might have remembered something,” she breathed.

There was an ardent moment where Draco took her shoulders, and she looked up into his face, unsure of what she would see there.

            “I know that spell. I’ve done it before.”

And as she said the words aloud, a slow building of realisation began to bloom inside her; it was real, then. Really real. She had to keep reminding herself of the fact, fearing that it would all slip away from her again, like sand through her fingers.

It was rather gratifying, too, she realised.

_I was right_ , she thought, _I’m not crazy_.

And impossible though it ought to have been, it wasn’t, not at all. It was wonderful. A gift beyond anything she could have thought.

And then, suddenly, she was pulled from her thoughts, as she became aware of Draco again; his hands on her bare shoulders, the feel of his fingertips against her skin; the warm expression shining from his eyes, misty silver; the hint of a smile ghosting his lips. The moment grew golden between them, and Hermione felt something stir in the shadows of her soul.

The day was soft and still between them.

Then, he spoke, and his voice was soft, almost gravelly.

            “Hermione, that’s amazing. How do you feel?”

            “I... I don’t know... Surprised, I think...” she replied with a breathless laugh.

            “Do you think... Would you like to try again? The spell, that is.”

The question gave her focus. She squared her shoulders, and nodded firmly.

            “Okay, off you go,” he said. “Remember what I told you.”

This time was different. She felt it the moment she raised the wand and felt a warmth - a tingling in her fingers, spreading up through her hand, her arm, her entire self, and knew it to be magic. And she was filled with a certainty, something joyful and fierce, as undeniable as the colour of her eyes, and her heart began to race. She took a deep breath and waved the wand.

            “ _Wingardium Leviosa_!”

This time...

This time the ribbon soared into the air, exuberantly dancing above the table, before coming to rest in front of the pointed wand. She slowly, carefully, directed it back onto the table surface, where it finally fell still. And then she let out a great whooshing breath, one she hadn’t even realised she’d been holding.

And then, she looked at Draco, who had - for once - exchanged his customary smirk for a wide, genuine smile. Without stopping for thought, she flung her arms around his waist, hearing him let out a breath of surprise, before he brought his arms around her in return.

For the first time, in so long, she didn’t feel alone.

            “Thank you. Thank you so much for this... this _gift_ ,” she mumbled into his chest, trying to hide the tears which had suddenly appeared.

            “You don’t need to thank me for that, you know,” he was murmuring into her hair. “This gift is all your own. I told you that you’re special.”

She couldn’t contain the shiver that went though her frame at his words. His voice, low and intimate, had fallen upon her like a caress, and she had to fight the urge to look up at him. It was made harder by the feel of his arms around her, and oh, he smelled so nice, and she felt so secure. And yet, her heart was fluttering girlishly, in a way she didn’t recognise, and there were butterflies in her tummy and she could feel the blush on her cheek.

He didn’t seem put off by her unexpected gesture; indeed, she would almost have said he was reluctant to end their embrace. And not for the first time, she wondered, what precisely their relationship had been all those years ago.

Her curiosity finally won through, and she raised her face to look at him. His eyes were conflicted, a slight clouding of silver, and she knew the moment was coming to a close. It was for the best, she knew, and she had let her guard down so much in the past hours...

Draco had lowered his arms from her and she loosened her hold on his waist in response, then they stepped apart from each other. Realising his wand was still in her hand, she offered it back to him.

            “Will I be able to get one of those, do you think?” she had to know.

            “A wand? Sure. I can take you, if you like. But not today, unfortunately. There are a few other things we still have to sort out first,” he told her pocketed the wand.

Hermione didn’t reply. It wasn’t until she’d handed back the wand that she realised how powerfully she wanted a wand of her own. It took her a moment to master the disappointment, even though she knew it was unreasonable to expect that Draco would be able to get a wand for her immediately.

            “You know...” came Draco’s voice, sounding hesitant. “I should probably leave. You’ve had to take in a lot today. You probably want some time to process it... and I have work to do.”

Hermione looked at him, and knew her expression betrayed her.

She didn’t want him to go. She didn’t want to be alone again. At least, not yet.

After... after everything he’d done for her... she could make this concession.

Those silver eyes...

So she did:

            “No, Draco,” she found herself saying. “Please, stay. Stay.”

So he stayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one!
> 
> This one is stupidly long. But there was no good place to split it, so this is what we're left with.  
> This chapter is one of my favourites.
> 
> Hope you've all enjoyed this chapter - let me know what you thought of it!
> 
> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> -Millie x


	7. Staying

** STAYING **

_June 2005_

He had stayed, which surprised her. She had asked, and he had stayed without question. He had moved away from the door turning himself towards her, and they had stayed that way for a few moments, just looking. She had given herself the freedom to peruse his form; the rather toned arms, and athletic figure; those beautiful cheekbones, pale eyes and gleaming hair.

He was, she thought, unlike anyone she had ever met. He held himself with a sort of unapologetic arrogance, and yet there was a hooded quality to his gaze; a bleakness lingering in the back of his eyes, one that spoke in every movement and line of his face. It wasn’t obvious, but it was there.

So Hermione looked at him, and knew she liked what she saw. And as her eyes met his, she saw an echoing admiration there. She could feel it between them.

            “I should...” she began to speak, but trailed off as she struggled to drag her gaze from his.

            “You should...?” he repeated in a low voice, and with a slight smirk.

            “I should...” she tried again, frustratingly, words failed her.

            “Yes?” he replied, as he took a slow step towards her, eyes still locked with hers.

            “Yes... I should... make tea,” she finally managed, grabbling onto her thoughts like a drowning woman.

He stopped.

            “Make tea? More tea?”

            “Yes. Well, we never had a drop of the first pot. I daresay it’s gone cold,” she replied as she walked over to pick up the tea tray.

            “Please tell me you’re joking.”

            “I have biscuits, too.”

            “Merlin, you’re serious.”

            “Did you just invoke the name of Merlin?”

            “Well, _God_ isn’t really a wizarding thing, is it?” he retorted. “Religion is a Muggle construct. Rather a strange one, at that.”

She had to stifle a laugh, conceding with a shrug that maybe he had a point, and went to move back into the kitchen but was stayed by Draco’s hand on her arm.

            “Put that down,” he told her. “I’ll sort out the tea.”

            “It’s fine.” She brushed his words away. “Besides, this is my flat - I’ll be making the tea.”

He rolled his eyes at her, then pulled out his wand and pointed it at the teapot. She watched wide-eyed as a jet of amber light engulfed the pot and then faded away, almost dropping the tray in alarm. He put the wand away again before bringing his hands up to take the tray from her.

            “The tea is fine now – I refreshed it. You said something about biscuits?”

She would have preferred to respond with something witty and amusing, but she found herself distracted briefly by the sudden warmth of his hands resting over her own. It was such an intimate thing, she thought, touching another person’s hand, with a soft caress, just like he was doing now...

In some ways, it was too much.

So instead of replying she pulled her hands away from his, loosening her grip on the tray and allowing it to fall into his grasp. Momentarily unsettled, she moved away from him and into the kitchen. She paused at the counter, taking a quick breath to calm herself, before she hunted out some biscuits and returned to the sofa.

* * *

 

It turned out that staying meant more than that one gold-limned afternoon.

It meant him showing up on her days off with bags of croissants so perfect that she could have sworn they’d come straight from France. Which in fairness, she supposed, they could have. It meant taking her for long walks – helped him think, he said – and making her vast cups of hot tea afterwards. It meant spending hours and hours teaching her spell after spell, meticulously combing through theory and wandwork as though it were his first time learning it. It meant having someone she could rely on.

And for her... that was the strangest and most precious thing of all.

And as the weeks had ponderously passed over in a hot breath to a somewhat soggier July, laden with lashings of rain, they got to know each other – properly, in meandering, lazy conversations as they pored over textbooks or earnest discussions over the benefits of being able to use magic to preserve a manuscript in stasis. He didn’t press her for more information about her past – her _false_ past. And for that she was grateful.

* * *

 

_July 2005_

It was a warm, damp Thursday; the kind of day where sunshine and rainclouds are chased about cheerily by a welcome breeze and any rain shower is soon blown away and swiftly forgotten. For once, it was quiet in work and Hermione grabbed the opportunity to catch up on some badly-needed research for her masters.

She knew well that if she stayed at her desk she’d get caught up in something-or-other and then that would be an afternoon wasted. So after a quick word with Jules – who was more than happy to let Hermione go – she went in search of a quiet cafe.

Her usual haunts were busy, as it was wet and summer time and the city was crawling with tourists, so she wandered around until she found somewhere less crowded. Ducking in through the door and shaking off her umbrella, she made for a squashy-looking armchair close to the window as a bored waitress came over to take her coffee order.

There were only a handful of people there, and nobody took a second look at her, which was how she preferred it anyway. Pulling out some books she’d borrowed from the library, she thanked the waitress absently as she dropped over a menu and her coffee. She settled down with a notepad and set about making a list.

There was something very satisfying about lists. Perhaps it was being able to clearly organise her thoughts. Perhaps it was the irrational enjoyment that came from crossing off the items one by one with a neat red line.

She’d just taken out her laptop – a gift to herself after Jules had offered her the position of research assistant – when the waitress arrived with her coffee. Thanking the girl with an absent smile, Hermione opened the laptop and turned it on. All of her research notes, and the beginnings of her dissertation were stored on it, as well as her work from the library.

Taking a sip of her coffee and grimacing, she reached for the sugar hoping to quell the rather awful taste. She understood suddenly why the cafe had been somewhat deserted. This wasn’t coffee – it was tar. She tried again. Slightly better. Sighing, she placed the cup back on the table and got to work.

She began by restructuring her introduction, as her dissertation supervisor had suggested. Combing back through her notes, she fleshed out the outline and sketched a timeline for her research. She’d chosen to write her dissertation on an obscure and recently discovered branch of pagan mysticism in early Christian texts.

In some ways, it was an easy topic; easy to love, easy for her to wax lyrical about the illumination and the delicacy of the calligraphy, the weight and gravity of the vellum and parchment, the resonance of the language. But it was also a common enough theme – pagan mysticism, early Christian texts. It was too easy a choice, as some saw it.

But most people hadn’t spent the last year working as a research assistant in the Bodleian, discovering the nuances of manuscript and scroll and even the occasional tapestry. And that, she thought, rather made something of a difference.

She’d just taken a sip of her now cold coffee and shuddered, looking up from her laptop for the first time in close to an hour. She glanced around the cafe for the waitress, who was nowhere to be seen. Sighing, she flopped back into her chair and rubbed her eyes, gaze drifting absently to the window and snagging on a glimpse of white blonde hair.

* * *

 

Draco had gone to the New Bodleian looking for Hermione but she hadn’t been there. Which had been frustrating, and surprising. As had happened so often these days he found himself seeking her out – for company, for amusement, for the sound of her laugh. And on this occasion, for lunch.

Undeterred, he made his way to a bookshop Hermione had mentioned, recommending it as a hidden jewel of arcane books and other pieces of nonsense, and lost himself for a good hour. He emerged with a number of new books wrapped in brown paper and tucked under his arm. He cast a subtle impervius on the package and stepped out into yet another rain shower.

He stepped into the street and made his way towards the main road, thoughts on his new books, when he passed by an unremarkable cafe and his eyes caught on the familiar head of curly brown hair, seated just inside by the window. She sat back and glanced toward the window, her eyes widening with surprise.

Draco let out a little huff of laughter, shook his head lightly, and made his way into the cafe.

            “Draco!” came Hermione’s cry of welcome.

He grinned at her in response, and she led him over to her table.

            “Not in work today?” he enquired as he settled himself into a chair.

            “Yes, technically, I suppose,” she replied, catching his eye with an embarrassed smile. “I’m working on my dissertation. It’s been sadly neglected these past few weeks,” she went on, shooting a pointed look his way, and laughing at his idle smirk.

            “Yes, well, it’s hardly my fault you dropped into my lap like a ripe peach, is it?”

            “A peach?”

            “I don’t see why not.”

            “Of course you don’t,” she scolded, though it didn’t take. “What brings you here? Oh, and what’s that?” she asked, nodding at the parcel of books he’d placed on the table amid the well ordered piles of notes and assorted books, and the taptop thing, or whatever it was.

Draco wasn’t wild about computers. Mostly because, he admitted grudgingly, he didn’t understand them.

            “I was at that little bookshop you recommended,” he shrugged. “I decided to take a look. Not bad, Granger.”

She rolled her eyes at him.

            “Why do you call me that?” she asked again. It was always questions with her. “It falls from your lips so easily. Easier than _Hermione_ anyway.”

            “It was what I always called you. Remember, Hermione, we weren’t friends – not then,” he told her, his eyes avoiding her probing gaze. “You recall what I told you about the Hogwarts houses? Slytherin and Gryffindor – they were and always have been historical enemies. Usually manifesting itself in Quidditch tournaments, or house points or fights in the corridors, that sort of thing. Friendships... well, they’d be rare.”

            “This is so frustrating, you know that, right?” she sighed, looking out the window, a little furrow pinching her brow.

It had stopped raining, at least. Tentative beams of marigold light were fighting through the ragged gray clouds.

He wondered if now was the time to ask again.

* * *

 

She turned back and found Draco’s eyes on her. They were dark, smoky with questions, and something else that made a slow-burning ache ignite deep within her. She began inching slowly towards him, wondering, wondering what would he do if she...

            “What happened to you Hermione?”

His words brought her up short, and her eyes flew up to meet his. She’d stopped, unknowing, at the question. He leaned across the remaining space between them, and she thought for a moment that he would reach out and take her hand... but he didn’t.

He repeated his question.

            “What happened? Do you remember _anything_?”

She sighed.

            “No. Well, sort of. Not really,” she struggled. “Sorry.”

            “No, it was good. Concise.”

            “Thank you. I do try.” She gave him a wry smile before continuing. “I... um... I have dreams.”

His gaze sharpened, and when he next spoke, the teasing note in his voice had disappeared.

            “What about?”

She paused because to talk about these dreams – and the chilling, twisting fear she felt after them – was to admit that they, like magic, could be real. And if she were being honest, she’d admit that deep down she knew the truth already.

She took a breath and answered:

            “There’s more than one... Sometimes... sometimes I’m in a forest, surrounded by trees. And I’m alone, or rather, I’m waiting for someone. And then, there’s another; I’m standing at the top of a tower, looking over mountains and hills and mist. It’s very quiet and very peaceful.” She smiled softly. “That’s a new one, actually.

            “And then... well, there are other ones,” she went on. “More nightmares, really. A woman laughing, cackling...” she paused, unwilling to go into the details of that particular one. “And a snake, a huge snake... Well, I won’t go into details. But they’re recurring dreams.

            “I don’t like to set much store by them, but they’re not like normal dreams. They’re vivid. They _feel_ real,” she paused, taking a shaky breath, giving voice to something she’d never permitted herself to entertain before. “More so than my memories of my own life.”

            “I don’t wish to give you... hope, if you want to call it that,” he replied, “but these dreams, well, they sound significant. There is a chance they could be latent memories attempting to assert themselves through your subconscious.”

She shrugged, uncertain of what to do with his answer. In some ways, it meant that the dreams of the forest, of the tower, of a sinister cackling woman – and pain, God, _the pain_ – was all real, along with the magic. It was just hard to accept.

            “So, tell me...” he began, trying again. “How did you come to be here, in Oxford? What about your family? You never said...”

Hermione felt herself flinch at the question, involuntarily, before bringing her eyes up to meet his. They were calm, like the surface of a lake on a windless day, and she could find no judgement there.

            “I came to Oxford, oh, nearly five years ago. I was so _grateful_ to be allowed to come here. I don’t know what would have happened to me if I hadn’t been offered a place here,” she paused. “I don’t know what happened to my parents, except that they’re gone. I don’t... I don’t remember.

            “Six years ago, I woke up in hospital with no memory of how I got there. I’d been found in London, unconscious and a bit bruised – or so they tell me,” she shrugged, “but otherwise healthy. Except that... something was _wrong_. I couldn’t explain how I knew – I just _did_. Something had changed.   

“I was stuck. I had no idea what had happened to me... or if anything had even happened at all,” she sighed. “It was... difficult. I could barely express how I was feeling... and no one in the hospital understood it. At first, they dismissed it. And then I, in my... _stupidity_ , continued talking about it.

            “And they began to question my... mental stability. They thought I was having a breakdown. _I_ thought I was having a breakdown.” She sighed again. “It was a breakdown. And I think that’s what I hate about this whole thing most of all: It made me doubt my own mind, my intellect, my own sanity.

            “You don’t understand, Draco... how valuable it is until you fear it’s slipping away from you.”

They shared a glance as she finished speaking, and she realised that he may very well have understood better than she knew.

            “They moved me up to the psychiatric ward, _for my own good_ , they said, and would have left me there to rot away on anti-depressants and suppressants and who knows what else, and never _any_ answers. They wouldn’t let me leave, not even on day-release,” she told him, unable to hide the bitterness in her tone. “It made me worse, being stuck there day after day. No one in there cared to save me. No one believed me... Eventually, I realised I would have to save myself.

            “So I did. And it’s just like as you said before, it was books that did it.” She allowed herself a smile. “I’ve always loved them. They saved me. I reached out and they were my path back to myself, and out of that hospital. I was released on the same day I received my Oxford letter. I haven’t looked back.”

She looked down at her hands, fingers twisting together, and inhaled as she saw Draco’s pale hand settle atop her own.

            “I’m so sorry, Hermione,” he said, his voice gravelly and his eyes low, and she felt her heart give pulse in response to his words. “ You... you should have been living a life as a witch, working for the Ministry, I suppose... maybe even married by now. You _earned_ that right, Merlin, you are more entitled to it than anyone else I know, barring Potter, I suppose”-

            “Hang on a second, Draco,” Hermione said, no longer following. “ _What_ are you talking about? There’s a Ministry? And what about Potter?”

            “The Ministry of Magic. Like your Muggle Government. We’re not heathens, you know.”

Hermione let out a little chuckle.

            “And Potter... well, where to start? We were at school together, same year. He was in your house. Gryffindor”-

            “Really?”

            “Yes, of course, why would I make that up?” he asked her with a scowl, which she happily ignored.

            “So how does Potter fit into all this?” she asked him, suddenly remembering her original question.

            “Ah, Potter. I’ll never be done hearing his name. But that is beside the point. Harry Potter,” he said, adding quickly before she could interrupt again. “Yes, the same one I mentioned last week, and I’m sure you’ve read something on him, so don’t play dumb – he was in our year in school. In Gryffindor, with you.”

            “What are you trying to say?”

Hermione felt her heart start to thud again, wondering what new revelation Draco was about to place at her door.

            “He was your friend, Hermione. Your best friend.”

            “Oh.”

And then, to her own dismay and mortification, tears began blurring her vision. And for the first time, she began to feel the full violation of whatever it was that had happened. It wasn’t just the knowledge of her own magic she had lost, it was more than that; she’d lost friends, people she’d loved – entire friendships, her own life experiences gone, and replaced by something, blurry and tawdry, something inherently false

            “Are you okay?” Draco’s quiet voice cut through the mistiness of her thoughts.

She was grateful for the interruption, that he cared enough to ask, and it gave her the opportunity, the strength, to pull herself together. Wiping her tears with her hands, she looked up at him, and smiled. Admittedly, it was rather a damp one, but it was a smile nonetheless. And she was rewarded by one of his own – a genuine one that made his eyes crinkle, softening the severity of their pale hue, the perfection of his face.

            “I’m okay,” she told him. “But you will tell me a bit about Harry, won’t you?” she asked him.

Draco rolled his eyes at her, before taking a sip of coffee, and she wondered absently where he’d got it from. The waitress still hadn’t come back from wherever she was.

            “Fine. Harry Potter. I don’t know him very well, you know. I won’t be able to tell you everything. Harry Potter is famous in the Wizarding community. He’s known all over the world. He was known once as ‘The Boy Who Lived’, as I’m sure you already know.”

Hermione nodded.

“And so I’m sure I don’t need to stress to you the scale and depth of fear that Lord Voldemort inspired in the Wizarding community,” he went on. “After all, we both experienced it firsthand.”

“What?”

“You heard me. What you’ve read so far – our history, Voldemort, the Wizarding War – it’s incomplete. You must have noticed that none of the history books I’ve shared with you include _recent_ history.”

“I had,” she acknowledged, her voice a distant breath in the air.

“That was deliberate, on my part,” he admitted, looking rather shamefaced. “I’m sorry.”

Hermione, who hated to have anything less than the full facts, felt mutinous.

            “Why was that, may I ask?” her voice calm, but containing a note of cold precision that didn’t bode well for Draco.

            “Because you’re in those history books, Hermione. You’re part of the story.”

            “What?” she gasped, as she felt her body still with shock.

            “There was a war,” he answered abruptly, “Another one. And Harry... well, he was the one who ended it. Voldemort had returned and was regaining power, and Harry, well... he defeated him. I don’t know how he did it... But you do. You were there with him, by his side for all of it, and you were there when it ended. In my world - _our_ world - you are a war hero.”

But it seemed that Hermione had reached her limit.

            “Fuck off.”

            “What?” he blinked at her foul-mouthed response..

            “You’re actually joking now, right?”

            “Hermione, why would I joke about this?”

            “I don’t know!” she cried out, unable to help herself. “Why don’t I remember any of this? Why, Draco? How could I have forgotten an entire war?”

            She brought her pleading gaze up to his – darkened with suppressed emotion – and finally asked the question that had been lingering, unspoken, in the deep waters of her mind.

            “Why can't I remember, Draco?”

* * *

 

Draco stared down at her, a frown settling like a cloud on his brow. Then, in a quick, urgent movement, he reached out to take her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. Again, the intimacy... but she did not pull away. She did not want to. She found that she liked it, but it was less surprising to her now.

When he finally spoke, it was on a sigh.

            “What did the hospital think happened to you?”

            “They really couldn’t figure out what it was. First, they thought it could have been caused in an accident, or something, at first; then they considered seizures – epilepsy, brain tumours... all sorts of things. They ran test after test... and then they sent me to a psychiatrist. I started mentioning how my memories of before waking up... how they were wrong somehow,” she replied, before giving a small shrug. “And, well, I already told you... things didn’t go well after that.”

            “And what do you think happened?”

            “I don’t bloody well know. If I knew... well I wouldn’t be where I am now, would I?”

Her tone rang with a current of frustration, and she pulled a hand through her hair as she spoke.

            “I know. And I’m sorry for it. But I do think I know what happened to you, Hermione,” he said softly, and his fingers tightened around hers. “There is a branch of magic – an advanced form, tricky to master – concerned with the manipulation of the mind. There’s Legilimency, the art of reading another person’s mind; and then Occlumency, which defends the mind against such attacks; finally, there is Obliviation.

            “This is the one which concerns you. Obliviation allows someone to modify, or even erase, another person’s memory,” he paused, his eyes raking over her face, “and I believe that this is what happened to you.”

It was like being pushed from a window, hearing those words, and in the moments following, as she absorbed them, she felt like she was falling from an endless height. Obliviated, he said... Her memories stolen from her with one word, her whole life, everything that had made her who she was. Something inside her gave a great wrench, and there, underneath the hard shell of shock, was a potent, scorching anger.

            “Who would do something like that? Who would do something so- so- so hateful?”

            “I wish I knew.”

“So do I,” she replied bitterly. “What am I going to do Draco?”

“Well... I don’t want to get your hopes up, but my friend Pansy – her fiancé is a Healer – and I thought I might be able to ask him to help. He works in the wizarding hospital. We... don’t have... a good relationship, he and I. He may not want to. But I’ll see what I can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So another update! I hope you've enjoyed the story so far. All feedback is welcome :)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who stopped by for a read, and to everyone who left me some lovely, shiny comments and kudos. It makes my day!
> 
> Let me know what you think of this one.
> 
> -Millie x


	8. Dinner

** DINNER **

_July 2005_

Pansy Parkinson was cooking dinner. She liked to cook. She liked the different smells and aromas; sometimes pungent and earthy, sometimes sharp and bright; bringing new textures and flavours into her meals. Every time was a chance to create something new. She liked that. Every meal was a new chance. Tonight she was making something special.

In the oven, a piece of pork belly lay slow-cooking to a heavenly tenderness, while she prepared the rest of the meal – potatoes and wilted buttery spinach, stuffed apples and herby rolls, for baking – and hummed gently to herself.

She heard the Floo go off, but she paid it no mind, expecting it to be Dean. Instead:

            “Pansy! Are you there?” came Draco’s voice.

            “Draco?” Pansy answered, moving from the kitchen into the dining room, where she saw Draco’s head sitting among the green flames.

            “What is it?”

            “Can I come over?”

            “Um...” she dithered a moment, thinking of the dinner. “Fine. Come on up.”

She watched as Draco’s long frame unfolded itself from the fireplace.

            “Thanks, darling,” he said, as he dusted himself off lightly.

            “It’s fine, but know this: Dean will be home soon and I’m in the middle of making dinner, and you’re not invited. Understand?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him to make her point. He chuckled at that, not that she was surprised. He was like that. Perverse.

            “I wouldn’t mind seeing him, you know. Meeting him again, as your _fiancé_ and all that,” he said, with his customary smirk.

            “Oh shut up. Why are you here?” she snapped.

            “Why, to see you, dearest one.”

She rolled her eyes at that.

            “You know what I mean, Draco,”

Draco never visited her at home, in her family home, if he could at all help it. She hadn’t given it up - not like he had - though she couldn’t blame him one bit for his choice. But then, she had untarnished memories of her home, for all that she had been in the darkest of places only a few years ago. Her home had been somewhere she was certain of her place, of her worth, of being loved.

            “I need to talk to you.”

            “Yes, you mentioned. Care to elaborate, darling?” she asked, in a poisonously sweet voice. “Come into the kitchen, I’m in the middle of cooking dinner,” She added.

She made her way into the kitchen, Draco trailing behind her. She returned to her potatoes, and raised her eyes to meet his eyes.

            “Well?”

            “Smells good, Pansy. What’s for dinner?”

            “Stop deflecting, you worm, and talk.”

            “Fine,” he scowled at her, and ran a hand through his hair. “I spoke to Hermione Granger again. I met with her.”

A moment of surprised stillness stole over her as she took in his words. She hadn’t expected that; she’d thought that he would contact Potter, as he’d said he would. She’d never imagined that he would do something about it himself.

She loved Draco like a brother, in full awareness of all of his faults; his frailties and inconsistencies, his fears and complexities. He was a good person - she knew he was - but he had been utterly ruined by the war. As a boy he’d been quick and lively, full of mischief and impetuosity, but that had slowly been eroded by the hard veneer which had developed as he grew up in the shadow of Lucius Malfoy.

Draco had been brought into the war when he was barely fifteen, and it seemed that whatever had been left of the clever,  loyal person he’d been was corrupted forever and replaced by a hollow-eyed man who neither cared, nor wanted to. It had made him selfish, clumsy, and uncertain of himself; deeply insecure, even after the war. It had turned him into an alcoholic. Someone dangerous, and broken. She still felt that chill of fear in her skin when she saw him have a drink, even though it had been well over a year since she’d seen him drunk, let alone tipsy.

And yet, in spite of all of this, in spite of the fact that the Draco she knew so well never stuck his neck out for _anybody_ (unless you counted the books, and Pansy wasn’t really sure that she wanted to do that) he was willing to trouble himself for someone like Hermione Granger.

What was it, she wondered as she put the potatoes in the oven, about Granger that moved someone like Draco to action, to _care_ enough even, and she said as much to him.

            “If I’m going to do this, it’ll be on my terms. And besides, _someone_ had to gain her trust,” he answered her with a sigh.

            “Oh, and I suppose it just _had_ to be you?”

He shot her a grin.

            “It’s better this way. Trust me.”

She moved onto the rolls, placing them into the oven, and then turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised sceptically.

            “How so?”

            “Well, she already knows me,” he paused, then added hastily as Pansy shot him another look. “As in, she met me in Oxford. She’s very guarded, very reticent, and I don’t know how well she would have taken some complete stranger approaching her about... well, everything.”

And though she could see the sense to his argument, she wasn’t entirely convinced.

            “I don’t know Draco. You can’t tell how she would have reacted to someone else, like Potter, or Weasley, even.”

            “No, you’re right, I don’t know what would’ve happened, but let me ask you this; why did Potter and Weasley never find her? She’s been missing for, what, five years? Did they not think to check the Muggle world?

            “I found her, and I wasn’t even looking for her. I made the connection with her, and she came to me, she decided to trust me. I can’t betray it now. Especially now, knowing what I know.”

            “What is it you know?” Pansy asked, unable to help herself.

He sighed deeply before replying.

            “I can’t tell you. It’s not for public consumption.”

Of course.

            “So what can you tell me?” she asked with a rivet of exasperation in her voice.

            “She knows now that she’s a witch.”

            “Oh, and how’d that go down?”

            “Reasonably well. It took a fair amount of convincing, but she came around rather well in the end.”

Pansy nodded, impressed, in spite of herself.

            “Have you spoken to Potter?”

There was silence, and Draco began shuffling about uncomfortably. And then she knew.

            “Draco! You didn’t tell him?” she cried out, knowing how he hated the shrill quality of her tone. “You utter prat! The _one_ thing I tell you to do! Typical! What is the point of asking my advice if you’re just going to promptly ignore it? Idiot!”

            “Pansy, calm the fuck down,” Draco hissed, eyes flaring suddenly. “I _am_ going to tell him. I just needed a little time, to get Hermione to trust me.”

            “Yes but a whole month?” she demanded incredulously, before adding with vivid curiosity: “Did it work?”

            “Yes,” he breathed. “It worked beautifully.”

Pansy once again felt a quiver of surprise run through her, for she had never seen Draco look as he did now. Eyes wide and light, and a smile - a _real_ one - dancing across his face.

            “What did you do?” she asked, almost alarmed.

            “It wasn’t what I did, dearest Pansy, it was what _she_ did,” he explained. “She performed magic, stunning magic, and with my wand, too. She mastered it. It was... quite something to see.”

            “I see...”

And Pansy really did see it now.

            “I can’t believe she trusts _you_ , of all people. If she remembers who you are, she may well hex your face off, and I for one wouldn’t blame her,” she sniffed.

            “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I need to see someone about restoring her memories, if that’s even possible. I was hoping, really, if you wouldn’t mind my talking to Dean about it. I thought... I hoped he might be able to shed some insight on all of this,” he said, almost pleading, then added, “I didn’t know he was going to be here tonight, by the way, I just wanted to ask you.”

            “But Draco, I don’t understand. Why not just bring her to St Mungo’s?”

            “Can you imagine the shitstorm that would create?” he asked dubiously. “No, I’m not going to do that to her. Besides, she really doesn’t like hospitals, apparently. I doubt she’d go, honestly.”

Pansy paused to absorb the little tidbit of information Draco had so casually dropped. It spoke of an intimacy that was, frankly, unprecedented. Neither had she missed the fact that he’d referred to her as _Hermione_ , not Granger. And then, just as she was about to reply, she heard the Floo go off again.

            “Helloo? Pansy, you here love?”

Before she could do anything useful, like shove Draco into the pantry, Dean walked through the kitchen door.

            “Thought I’d find you here,” he was saying, but he never finished his sentence, as his eyes fell onto Draco.

An uncomfortable silence dampened the kitchen. Pansy cast about desperately, finding no help in Dean’s closed face, and knowing that Draco would be worse than useless. She had to do something.

            “Hello love,” she said, moving towards Dean, laying a soft kiss on his cheek, lingering by his ear, and giving his lobe a brief nip with her teeth.

His eyes widened and his jaw tightened as he looked down at her, his gaze turning dark and warm.

            “Hello to you too,” he said, as he brushed his mouth across hers softly.

Inwardly, Pansy breathed a sigh of contentment. He was back with her. She always felt that inner release, an unravelling of a tension within herself, when she saw Dean at the end of the day.

            “You remember Draco?” she asked unnecessarily.

Draco, surprising her, moved forward with his hand extended to Dean. And Dean, looking equally surprised, took it, shaking the other man’s hand. Then Draco spoke.

            “Good to see you again, Dean – no, really. Pansy told me about the two of you, you know. Congratulations.” There was something of an awkward silence. Then Draco paused a moment, clearing his throat. “I know you were there for her - her friend - when I was not. I was a crappy friend to her, but she’s still good to me. She deserves every happiness she can find, with a good man like you. She told me what you did, how you were kind to her, when very few were.” He paused again, heavily. “So, when I wish you happiness together, I mean it sincerely.”

There was another moment of prolonged silence, though unlike the previous one, it was not uncomfortable. It was broken by the sounds of Pansy’s sniffling, and Dean glanced down at her and gave a wry chuckle. It didn’t take much to make Pansy cry these days.

            “Thank you,” Dean answered, nodding his wary approval. “Pansy told me a bit about you too, you know.”

            “I imagine she has.”

Another pause, as Dean looked at Draco appraisingly, a faint frown on his brow. And then:

            “She doesn’t blame you... and, from what little I know, from what she has told me, I can’t blame you either.”

Pansy watched as Draco’s pallor (so unearthly, even at the best of times), whitened and his jaw tensed for a moment, before he swallowed, and gave the merest nod.

            “I’m grateful for that,” he said, in a low voice.

            “So... what brings you here, Malfoy?”  Dean asked then, his tone light and friendly.

Pansy caught Draco’s eye and gave him an imperceptible nod. And as it was, she knew Dean would want to help. Even if he wasn’t overly fond of Draco, he had made an effort towards civility – they both had, for her sake, she knew – and she doubted that he would say no to _Hermione Granger_.

In her most secret self, in a place she would never admit to, Pansy still found it hard to pronounce the name with the kind of reverence that was frequently applied to it, even more so since her disappearance.

But that latent pettiness, that trace of the girl she had been so long ago, was well buried and Pansy was done with that now, and she found, like Draco, she could not turn her back on another witch in need.

_Times change, people change_.

They had all changed. War was like that. It left no one untouched.

And so she spoke:

            “Well, love, he actually wanted to ask me about you.”

            “Me? Why?” Dean replied, sounding surprised.

            “I need your help,” Draco cut in, sounding urgent.

            “With what?”

            “I need your advice,” Draco paused for a moment, measuring him. “What do you know about magically-induced memory loss?”

            “What?” Dean blinked at Draco, and then settled down onto a stool, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I’ll tell you, of course, but why on earth would you want to know about that? Who do you need to Obliviate?”

And Pansy knew, right then, that her dinner was effectively ruined. She turned to the oven and tried to preserve as much of it as she could for later, keeping her ear turned on the conversation going on behind her.

            “No one, yet,” Draco chuckled. “But it’s not so much a question of Obliviating someone... It’s to do with someone who has _been_ Obliviated. For rather a long while, I believe.”

Dean went still, all traces of humour leaving his face as he absorbed Draco’s words.

            “Who is it?” he asked, his voice low and concerned. “Why haven’t they been brought to St Mungo’s? Or is it a Muggle?”

Pansy knew that Dean would continue to rattle off questions if she didn’t rein him in, so she stepped forward and laid a hand on his arm.

            “Dean, let him speak. You need to just listen - _just listen_ ,” she said.

She saw from the glint in his eye that he understood. He always did.

Dean turned back to Draco, and nodded for him to speak.

            “What I’m going to tell you, it needs to be kept quiet,” Draco began. “And by that I mean that no one (other than Pansy) can know, for now. That will change in time, but for now I must insist on secrecy.”

Dean nodded his assent, before turning to look at Pansy.

            “Am I take it that you already know what he is about to tell me?”

            “Yes, but really, are you surprised?” she retorted with a little toss of her head.

Dean merely rolled his eyes in response.

            “May I continue?” came Draco’s voice, threaded with irritation.

            “By all means, darling, do go on,” Pansy replied.

Draco shot her a scowl before speaking again.

            “Last week, I was in Oxford visiting one of the libraries there, and I met someone. From Hogwarts.” He sighed before going on. “It was Hermione Granger. She’s the one who has been Obliviated.”

There was stunned silence from Dean, and Pansy felt a shiver of pity and sadness for the other witch, even though she’d already known what Draco was going to say.

            “Now...” Dean began to speak, slowly. “When you say she’s been Obliviated, what precisely do you mean? What, and how much has she been made to forget? Did she know you, when she met you? We need to be certain it was Obliviation.”

Dean had shifted into what Pansy called, ‘Healer Mode’.

            “Well, for starters, she didn’t recognise me,” Draco answered. “But then, neither did she seem to know anything about Hogwarts, or magic, or even Harry Potter. It was a chance meeting, but I got her to accept my card, and she got in touch. She had no idea she was a witch, none at all, no idea of who she is. I had some time convincing her that she even _was_ a witch, in the end.”

            “Sweet Merlin, I can’t believe this,” Dean said in a low voice.

            “I’m sure you can see why I’ve insisted on discretion. I thought – I’d hoped – that as Pansy’s fiancé, and as one of Hermione’s friends, you would help me.”

            “Yes, I do,” Dean frowned, thinking, “Listen, I’ll take a look at her if you like - if _she_ is willing - but, Draco, I have to tell you... memory charms, spell damage, that sort of thing, it’s really not my area of expertise.”

            “I understand that” replied Draco, with an answering frown. “But honestly, I need someone who knows what they’re doing – someone I can trust, not just anyone – who can at least explain to me how to help her, maybe help me explain what happened to her. Right now, telling her she was Obliviated means nothing to her.”

            “Right,” Dean nodded. “Well, I’m happy to help you, if it means helping Hermione, in any way I can... There is... There’s something else though... I think I know someone who could help you, properly, I mean. She works up in Spell Damage at St Mungo’s.”

            “Really?” both Draco and Pansy spoke together.

            “Really.” said Dean, “But I want to talk to her first, I think she can be trusted – I _know_ she can be trusted,” he corrected himself. “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything to her. I just want to see if she’s really the right person for the job... I’m almost certain she is. And then, I’ll report back to you, and we can decide what to do from there.”

Draco looked at Dean for a long moment, assessing, and then at last, finding him worthy.

            “Thank you. That would be immensely helpful. Do we know who she is?”

            “I just have one question for you, before I answer that,” Dean said, catching Draco’s eye. “Does Harry know?”

            “I haven’t informed him yet,” Draco replied, looking uncomfortable. “Though, not for some stupid nefarious purpose. Simply, Hermione isn’t someone who trusts easily. Not anymore, anyway. It took a fair bit of time for me to gain her confidence, to even get her to agree to meet me – let alone actually _talk_ to me.

            “I wanted to gain her trust... to tell her the truth,” he paused, looking pained. “She had to know, she had to know the truth of what she is. And I needed her to know that before I even brought Potter into this. Not because I’m trying to keep her to myself, or away from Potter, but because I’m trying to do what’s right by her.”

            “Oh, Draco,” Pansy spoke softly.

Dean was nodding, looking (grudgingly) impressed.

            “I won’t, and don’t, distrust your motives. I understand them. In fact, I’ll vouch for them later, if Harry’s temper decides to get the better of him, the hot-headed fool. The reason I asked if he knew is because the Healer I know”-

            “Oh, shit, tell me it’s not a Weasley or someone like that,” Draco groaned.

Dean let out a quick shout of laughter, much to Draco’s surprise.

            “No, no, not a Weasley. Her name is Demelza Robbins, which is what she prefers to be known as in the hospital. But outside of there, she’s known as Demelza Potter. She’s Harry’s wife.”

            “Ah,” said Draco, looking frustrated, “Right... Well, that’s... perfect, isn’t it?”

Then he let his face fall forward into his hands, as Dean and Pansy exchanged amused glances. And then came Draco’s voice again, muffled and sounding rather grumpy.

            “Just fucking _perfect_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this chapter. It just flowed, you know? I enjoyed writing Pansy so very much.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this one. As always please let me know what you think. I love to hear your thoughts.
> 
> -Millie xx


	9. Trying

** TRYING **

_July 2005_

She was nervous, that went almost without saying.

It had been over a month since Draco had dropped into her life like some sort of anomaly. Her thoughts since their meeting had been tentative at best, muddled and conflicted. The blinding rush of clarity and oneness she had felt in the immediate aftermath of finding out she was a witch had faded in the following days, and she scurried from emotion to emotion, unwilling to contemplate any of them closely.

It was habit, she knew, one imposed over many years, to ignore many of her inner conflicts, to bury herself in work. Emotions were messy. She understood them well enough, understood herself well enough. On her better days, self-reflection was something she valued. She knew her own weaknesses well enough, the dark parts of her soul.

But this was different. She couldn’t ignore her feelings, or, indeed, the facts of the matter, and the two were so intertwined. She was a witch. Magic. In some ways, it was so difficult to take in. Hermione liked her life, and everything in it, to be in control. She had worked so hard, over the past years, to maintain the control she knew she needed, like she needed air.

She had fought ruthlessly against herself, trapped in a cycle of fear and uncertainty, not knowing, not truly trusting herself. And now she knew for sure. She had been right – that inchoate part of herself, driven by instinct – had known it had not been madness. In some way, she could say she felt vindicated. That she had always _known_ it, on some deeper level. And then... part of her felt such shame, for denying it, ignoring it, when all along it had been some lost part of herself crying out to be heard.

But habits are hard things to break.

And now Hermione found herself battling to control her emotions, contain them, and not because she had suddenly rediscovered her magical inheritance, but because she’d had to rediscover it at all.

It was something, she thought, bitterly, to discover that someone had simply waved a wand erased a decade of her life. They had gone into the deepest parts of her mind and stolen memories, joyful moments and awful ones too, along with friendships and birthdays and people she had loved. And it was _this_ that she could not accept, could not bear to face, in the days following her conversation with Draco.

How did she accept that she’d lost something, something so crucial and inherent, part of the fabric of herself?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. She held off answering for a moment, knowing who was behind the door, and took a breath to compose herself. She walked over to the door, pausing at a mirror, in a moment of unexpected vanity, to check her appearance.

She pasted a smile onto her face, concealing her fresh inner turmoil, and pulled the door open, and at the sight of Draco standing there, looking a touch impatient, her expression changed to a genuine smile. As her eyes met his, the frown on his face disappeared, relaxing into an answering grin.

Neither of them spoke; perhaps there wasn’t a need.

She pulled the door wider to let him in, and he paused as he passed her, laying a hand on her arm momentarily, before continuing into the flat. She shut the door, but did not follow, merely watching him as she leant back against the door. He prowled around the main room a few times, a nod to his own anxiety, before stopping and drawing his eyes up to hers.

            “How are you?” he asked.

            “I’ve had better days,” she answered with a wry smile. “You?”

            “I’m alright,” he shrugged, attempting nonchalance, but she knew better.

            “Of course you are,” she said, allowing just the faintest hint of sarcasm to enter her tone.

He narrowed his eyes at her, picking up on her tone immediately, which didn’t surprise her.

            “You ready to go? We should probably get going.”

            “Sure,” she replied, as she grabbed her bag. “How are we getting there? Do you have a car?”

            “Not... not exactly. We’ll have to apparate.”

            “Do I want to know?”

            “Probably not.”

            “So how do we ‘apparate’?”

            “Well, you’ll need to hold my arm.”

            “Um... okay then,” she said, a bit nonplussed, and moved to his side placed her hand on his arm.

He placed his hand over hers, squeezing her fingers briefly, then pulled his wand out and gave an abrupt twist. All at once, everything went black and compressed, tighter and tighter, a fierce and ferocious pressure on all sides... and then just as just as suddenly it stopped. The world appeared again in front of her eyes, wavering and unsteady, and Hermione felt the breath in her lungs again as she sucked in great gasps of air. Her stomach began to lurch slightly, and she began to sway, feeling faint, and she tightened her grasp on Draco’s arm.

            “Sorry,” he said, “I did tell you that you wouldn’t like it.”

            “Why would anyone choose to travel this way? Actually... Draco, where are we?”

They were standing in front of a large manor, slightly run-down, built in a warm, honey-coloured stone. It was backed by a vast greenery of trees, and then further beyond, murky purple hills. The gardens at the front of the house had grown into a prettyish kind of wilderness, the formal structure of it having made way to a sort of pastoral chaos and were a charmingly pleasant foil for the formality of the manor house.

            “This is Parkinson House. My friend Pansy lives here,” he replied, watching her carefully for a reaction.

She understood.

            “And we have met... before?”

            “Yes,” he replied, saying nothing more.

His silence was telling.

            “I see,” she responded, keeping her voice carefully level.

            “And her fiancé, would I have met him?”

            “Yes. He knows you better than she does though. He was a Gryffindor, and in our year, too,” he said.

            “These Hogwarts houses... they shape a lot about you as a person, don’t they?”

He frowned for a moment, before he replied.

            “Yes... I suppose they do.”

He opened his mouth to continue, but was interrupted by a voice, clear like a bell, carrying across the lawn to them.

            “Darlings, do you plan to stay out there _all_ day?”

There, at the door to the manor, was a smiling woman with long, dark hair. She moved towards them, tripping down the steps and crossing the lawn to them. Hermione could see now that she had rather pretty blue eyes, a snub nose and a wide smile.

            “Hullo Pansy, dearest,” said Draco, with an amused drawl. “Couldn’t contain your impatience I see, you nosy thing.”

            “Draco, do shut up,” she replied without missing a beat.

Then she turned to Hermione and her smile became slightly apprehensive.

            “Hello Hermione. Welcome to Parkinson House. It’s really... well, lovely to see you again.”

Hermione watched her for a moment, examining the other woman’s face... but, nothing. Pansy stood before her, squinting slightly in the midday sun, a tentative smile on her face. Even knowing that she had met her before, she could not summon a shred of recognition.

Pansy was, essentially, a stranger.

Just like everyone else.

            “It’s nice to meet you... so to speak,” she answered, somewhat hesitantly. “That is... nice to see you again too.”

Pansy’s face relaxed, but Hermione caught the fleeting glance she shared with Draco, and she wondered... She had so many questions, that if she stopped to think of them, her head reeled. She wondered about Pansy, who she was, and her relationship to Draco (not jealous, _not_ jealous), and what she had been like when they had all been in school together.

            “Shall we go in?” Pansy asked, breaking into Hermione’s thoughts. “I made raspberry lemonade. It’s rather good, if I do say so myself.”

Draco looked over to Hermione, a question in his gaze, and she nodded her assent.

            “Lead the way, good lady,” he replied, with a slight, mocking bow.

Pansy scowled, before leading them across the garden and into the house.

* * *

 

Draco watched Hermione as she walked through the manor, wary-eyed, anxiety playing in her every movement. He reached out for her hand, giving it a squeeze, and allowing his thumb to brush across her knuckles. Almost unawares, she drifted closed to his side, keeping her hand linked with his for a few moments more. In front of them, Pansy chattered unheeded.

            “I thought we would sit in the Terrace Room; it’s in the best condition, after all. And it really is lovely at this time of the year. Though, I must apologise for the state of the house; it rather fell into disrepair during the-”

She broke off suddenly to turn and look at Draco, Hermione close to his side, hand clasped in his. Her eyes widened, a mere moment, but he found he really didn’t care how it looked. Hermione let go of his hand, with a faint blush, though she stayed close to him. Pansy, always ready, simply blinked away her surprise and continued speaking.

            “Draco, have you told her about the war?”

To his surprise, it was Hermione who answered, as they began walking again.

            “Yes, he mentioned it. But not in any great detail.”

            “No, but he wouldn’t. He loves being vague. So pretentious,” Pansy nodded, falling into step beside Hermione.

Hermione laughed, and though Draco felt he ought to protest in some way, he didn’t, because he liked to hear her laugh.

            “Anyway,” Pansy continued, “as I was saying, the house is in a bit of a mess, because, well, the war, and I didn’t have much use for it after. I’ve been fixing it up, but there’s only so much you can do with magic. And the Terrace Room has just the loveliest views of the lake.”

            “There’s a lake?” Hermione asked.

            “Oh, yes. Full of grindylows, and they are an utter pain to deal with, so no swimming. Yet. I’ll get the little bastards soon enough though.”

Hermione looked to Draco in appeal.

            “Grindylows?”

            “Magical creature, dwells in lakes, and, as Pansy so elegantly put it, unpleasant little bastards,” he replied.

            “Oh, I’m sorry Hermione,” Pansy cut in. “I haven’t put you off, have I?”

            “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Draco replied.

            “For Merlin’s sake, will you let her answer for herself! Is _your_ name Hermione?” she shot back.

            “It could be.”

            “You’re being ridiculous, darling.”

            “What can I say? You inspire me, Pansy dearest.”

Pansy looked to Hermione.

            “You wouldn’t object if I hit him, would you?”

            “I don’t think I’m the best person to ask,” Hermione replied. “Apparently I’ve already had the pleasure.”

            “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten about that.” Pansy gave a gleefully malicious chuckle. “You drew blood, did you know? Draco wouldn’t say who’d done it, for the longest time, despite my best efforts. And then, by the time he’d actually gotten over himself enough to tell me, I’d managed to nag it out of Gregory anyways.”

Draco groaned. Pansy was enjoying this far too much. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of relief as he saw the door of the Terrace Room come into view. Pansy continued blithely chatting with Hermione, as she pushed the doors open and led them through.

It had been many years since Draco had been in this part of the house, and, in a strange way, it was like revisiting his childhood. He remembered sunny afternoons spent lazing on the green grass of the lawns, and sprinting down to the lake to jump in with an epic splash, while his mother and Mrs Parkinson sat in the shade of the terrace, sipping lemonade and trading wicked gossip in genteel tones.

Nostalgia was a funny thing. It made him long for a time that didn’t really exist; when life was uncomplicated, and the hot summer days seemed to last forever, smelling sweetly of promise. He felt a powerful longing for a time and a place where the shadows cast by his actions were neither long, nor terribly dark, and ached to know it was utterly impossible.

The room had once been painted in a pale green, rather insipid, though now, in its current incarnation, it was painted in rather soothing shades of gray and white, and reminded Draco of cool rain. The sunlight streamed in through the arched windows, and the doors were thrown open to allow the breeze to chase in off the lake.

Draco could see Dean standing out on the terrace, looking down over the lake. He turned back towards the room at the sound of Pansy’s voice, walking in through the wide-flung doors. Pansy gave a chirp of happiness as she spotted him, then took Hermione’s arm and led her over to him, as Draco followed behind, deciding to allow Pansy to take the lead for now. This was her house, after all, and Dean was her fiancé.

Dean was staring at Hermione, wide eyed and solemn.

Draco knew that feeling, all too well.

            “Jesus, Hermione... It- it’s you. Really and truly you.”

Hermione met Dean’s eyes, looking strangely haunted as she examined Dean’s face, knowing she’d find nothing.

            “You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked her gently.

She shook her head, her jaw tensing momentarily.

            “I’m Dean Thomas. We were in Gryffindor together, same year. We’ve... we’ve shared a lot,” he gave her a brief, wry smile, before sighing and continuing. “But that means nothing to you right now. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to examine you, to see what happened to you. I’m a healer – a bit like a doctor – and the examination will be magical, rather than physical or psychological. Is that okay with you?”

Draco watched as she regarded Dean, her expression inscrutable, knowing her learned distrust was warring with her natural curiosity. And then, after a tense moment, she spoke.

            “It isn’t invasive, is it?”

            “No, not remotely.”

            “Fine.”

Dean smiled, and behind him, Pansy sank down onto a sofa in apparent relief. Dean pulled out his wand, and invited Hermione to sit down on a simple, straight-backed chair, then began casting incantations that glowed yellow and amber, and settled like a fine mist over her skin, ‘til she looked like she were glowing with it. Draco caught Hermione’s gaze, and shot her a reassuring smile, as he moved around to sit next to Pansy.

            “Admit it. You’re invested. You _like_ her,” he began, giving her a nudge.

            “I will if you will.”

            “Stating the obvious, I would’ve thought.”

            “My, my, that is some about-face, Draco, darling,”

He wasn’t going to acknowledge that.

            “When is the elusive Mrs Potter expected to arrive?” he asked instead.

            “Half an hour, or thereabouts.”

            “I’d like to speak to her beforehand, if I may?”

Pansy frowned. “Dean will likely insist on being there.”

            “That’s fine. It will probably be better if he’s there anyway. Not that I’m any threat to her.”

            “That’s right, you great pussycat. She could likely knock your arse three ways to next week.”

            “You do love massaging my ego, don’t you?”

            “One of my everlasting pleasures, dearest, is ensuring you never get _too_ full of yourself,” she gave a contented sigh as she spoke, and lay her head onto his shoulder for a moment.

For a moment, they were silent as they watched Dean examine Hermione. He was chatting to her in a low voice and she was smiling, looking relaxed now.

            “He’s good. At what he does, I mean,” Pansy spoke again.

            “I can see that. She’s warmed up to him. And to you, it would seem.”

            “I am trying, you know.”

            “I know you are,” he said, before looking at her. “I am too.”

            “It’s hard at the start. Even... even after everything that happened, it’s still difficult. A conscious effort. Going against everything we knew to be true,” she said, quietly. “I still feel sick when I remember the moment where I knew, really knew, that it had all been a lie. And it took me a long time, I’m actually ashamed how long, to realise it.”

“I felt... bitter. For a long time. I ran from it, drank it away. But you know that, don’t you?” Draco asked, with a self-depreciating smile. “You never stopped trying. I’m sorry I never came back to you. You didn’t deserve that. But I had to do it alone. I always have. You’d think I’d have learned by now...

“I had to fight for myself, do you understand? I’ve never...” he took a breath, steadying himself, because he had to do this. “I’ve always been a coward, you know that. I could never face anything head-on, not even my own demons... And after the war, I couldn’t escape them. They chased me the world over.”

But beyond that, he couldn’t continue.

Pansy pulled his hand into her own warm grasp and squeezed, before letting it drop. Her blue eyes were gleaming with a film of unshed tears.

            “Thank you,” she said, her voice husky. “For trying.”

            “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, seriously.
> 
> The response to the last update was insane! Thank you so much!
> 
> I had to upload this to ffn, as the existing fic was making no sense, so for the sake of continuity here's another chapter. Surprise!
> 
> I really love hearing what you all think - your feedback sustains me :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> -Millie xx


	10. Oblivious

** OBLIVIOUS  **

_July 2005_

It wasn’t long after that Draco found himself standing with Dean, awaiting the arrival of Demelza Robins, or Potter, whatever she chose to call herself. He and Dean were attempting something of a conversation, though it was it was halting and awkward and still slightly tentative on both sides.

They weren’t waiting long, however. Right on time, the Floo lit up and the rather diminutive form of Demelza Potter stepped out of the fire.

She had warm, caramel coloured hair, cut very short, and large brown eyes that narrowed slightly as they fell onto Draco, before her face relaxed into warm smile.

            “Hello Dean. How are you? And Draco Malfoy. It wasn’t you who was Obliviated, was it?”

“No, far from it, Demelza.” Dean answered quickly, as Draco shot a scowl at her. “Draco is... well, I think you need to talk to him before we introduce you to the patient.”

“Okay then. Right, well, Mr. Malfoy,” she began, her demeanour turning professional. “I’d like to get started as soon as possible. Unfortunately, I could only get a couple of hours away from the hospital, so I’m quite limited in what I can do for you, or rather, the patient in that time. So why don’t you tell me about... the patient, a bit of background, that sort of thing.”

“Well,” Draco replied, “before you meet her, I need to be assured of your discretion. I need to trust that you will keep this confidential, from St Mungo’s, everyone - even from your husband, if you must.”

She nodded briskly.

            “Of course. That goes without saying.”

            “I don’t mean to question your commitment, your dedication, Mrs Potter, it is simply a case of, well... your husband... and whether you can keep this from him, if necessary.”

            “Is it something illegal, Malfoy?”

            “No, at least not on my part.”

            “Well then, _what_ it it?

            “Spit it out, Draco,” Dean called from the doorway.

            “Stay out of this, you,” he retorted, then heard Dean snigger in response.

Draco took a breath and, setting his jaw, spoke again.

            “Your patient is Hermione Granger, Mrs Potter. I’m sure I needn’t explain further.”

He watched as Demelza visibly reeled, blinking ferociously for a moment, and then frowned.

            “What? How on earth...? I- I...” She struggled to speak for a moment as she attempted to gather her composure. “Where did you find her? What happened? Where has she been?”

            “It’s complicated,” Draco answered shortly.

            “I daresay it is, Malfoy, but I will need to know some details in order to help Hermione.”

            “And _she_ will be the one to decide, Mrs Potter. I’m not her keeper.”

Demelza Potter shot him a sharp, shrewd look.

            “Indeed,” she replied slowly. “However, I’ll need you to tell me how you found her, the where and when, if you will, and just a few other details. It will help with giving her a proper diagnosis, and any treatment I may be able to give her.”

            “You don’t trust me.”

            “Did I say that?” she asked with a touch of asperity. “My first priority is the patient. That’s my remit as a Healer, you understand? So any other concerns I may have beyond that are mine, and I do not allow them to interfere in _any_ way with the treatment of a patient,” she said calmly. “However, the fact that you’ve apparently gone through some effort to help her suggests to me that Hermione, at the very least, can trust you.” She paused, possibly Draco thought, for dramatic effect, then continued. “And that, right now, is enough for me.”

He was surprised by that. He had not expected that Potter’s wife - this tiny, soft-eyed woman - would allow herself to trust him. It was strange to him, and left him aware of an odd pang somewhere in the region of his chest. Was this how it felt to be good?

            “Fine,” he conceded on a quick exhale.

            “May I see her now?”

            “In a moment. One last thing, before we bring you up.”

She looked at him.

            “Now you know who it is you’ll be treating, I need to be sure, I need to _know,_ that we can trust you to keep this confidential. For now, at least, it _must_ be kept secret. No one can know.”

She understood immediately.

            “You’re asking me to keep this from my husband,” she stated, her voice hard.

Draco didn’t respond. He didn’t see the point.

            “She was his _best friend_. You know what she did for him. What she sacrificed. Harry misses her, every day. He searched for her, tirelessly.” She shook her head. “You’ve no idea. It very nearly broke him, and it’s no secret that Harry’s lost a lot of people. I _can’t_ keep this from him.”

            “Fine.” Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m going to trust you. I suppose you can see her”- she bristled at that, and he had to suppress a smirk –“and we are going to discuss it with Hermione. If she wants Potter to know, if she wants to see him, then you’re free to tell him. _Only_ him.”

Her face broke into a delighted smile, and she opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.

            “This does not mean that you get to tell all and sundry. She does _not_ need a gaggle of Weasleys descending on her, _en masse_. You understand, no doubt.” He couldn’t resist throwing a smirk at her, then added. “Come on then, let’s go. We’ll bring you up to see her now.”

* * *

 

 Hermione was pacing a fretful circle, anxiety tripping along her nerve-endings, as Pansy’s watchful blue eyes followed her movements from her spot on the sofa. It was the kind of restless, nameless thing, a strange apprehension sitting low in her stomach, fluttering and tugging at her attention.

            “Hermione,” Pansy spoke up, “Sit down, won’t you? Have some of the lemonade, perhaps?”

            “Oh,” she replied absently, “No thank you...”

Then Pansy stood, taking her arm, attempting to stall her pacing.

            “Hermione,” she repeated, and this time Hermione paused in her movements. “I- I know you and I... we weren’t terribly close in school...”

She trailed off, looking terribly awkward, and Hermione had to wonder why. It distracted her from the bubbling nervousness, from the fear that, once again, she would be told it was all in her head, irrational though it may have been.

            “The truth is... I was horrible to you in school.” Pansy sighed, running a hand through her dark hair. “I’m being polite. I was a bully. I... I was awful to a lot of people, truly hateful. There were reasons, of course there were, but it doesn’t excuse it. And- and I’m sorry for it.

            “But I couldn’t have you here, in my home, without saying something. Especially... you know, under the circumstances. I had to tell you the truth, and to apologise.”

Hermione frowned. This was unexpected, she thought, and she turned her head to meet Pansy’s eyes. They really were a lovely shade of blue, a dusty cornflower colour, and she could see no hint of malice – only a strange sort of sadness and remorse.

It was odd being apologised to, for something she didn’t remember. And in a strange way, Hermione admired Pansy’s courage, and her honesty, for coming out and admitting it. But she was aware now, of a subtle current of wariness, a cautiousness within herself coming to the fore.

For now, however, she would give the other woman the benefit of the doubt.

            “Pansy, it’s okay, no, really it is,” Hermione finally replied. “I... I can’t hold a grudge against someone I just met. I have no memories of you, of _anything_ you have done. You tell me that you were horrible and a bully, and yet here and now, you’ve apologised.” She paused a moment. “I can’t reconcile it properly... I probably won’t be able to unless I regain my memories. So... for now, I accept your apology.”

            “And should you regain your memories and regret accepting it?”

            “Well, I like to think of myself as a reasonable person. If I do remember... well, I think we should talk about it then, don’t you?”

Pansy took a deep breath.

            “Okay then,” she replied, a small smile softening her features.

            “Okay then,” Hermione responded with an answering smile of her own.

            “Would you like to come out onto the terrace?”Pansy asked suddenly. “It’s rather stiflingly warm today, and the terrace has some very pretty views and a good breeze blowing from the lake. We can wait out there until the lads come back with Demelza.”

Hermione nodded, and they made their way out onto the terrace and stood for a number of minutes, in a strangely companionable silence. Pansy was right, she thought. It was a rather stunning vista; a vast lawn, giving way to a low, rolling hill and a slow reveal of the infamous lake. She inhaled deeply, savouring the summery smells of green grass and warm earth and sunshine itself.

            “Very pretty,” she said, with look at Pansy.

            “I do love it here. I always have. When I was young, I thought the whole world began and ended here, and that was that. Everywhere else was simply... less.”

            “Yes, I can see why.”

They were drawn from their quiet conversation by the sound of the door opening and the sounds of Draco and Dean bickering amicably with Healer Robins about some Quidditch match they’d all seen. Pansy rolled her eyes, as they heard Dean exclaim loudly about the talents of someone called Evelyn Rosier, whoever she was, and they moved back into the room to greet them.

* * *

 

After she’d gone through another round of awkward introductions, (“No, no, call me Demelza!”) noting how the Healer’s eyes had widened upon seeing her (though she’d been better than Dean at masking her shock), Hermione began to feel less tense. It helped that when they’d moved to sit down, Draco had been at her side. She could feel the slow, gentle brush of his fingertips on her hip, and it was both a comfort and a distraction to her.

            “So, Hermione,” began Demelza, “I understand Dean ran some preliminary spells, to establish if there was any magical trace present, but there was minimal”-

            “Sorry,” Hermione interrupted. “But what is a magical trace? What’s the significance?”

            “Well, every spell you cast leaves a magical trace – a magical signature, if you will,” Demelza replied. “However, it doesn’t stick around forever, not in a meaningful way. And in your case – you were Obliviated, what, six years ago nearly? – it is almost impossible to detect any of that trace magic.

            “This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, by the way,” she added. “It simply means the course of treatment you take will be more complicated.”

            “I’m not sure I follow...” Hermione said, frowning.

            “Well, think of the magical trace as a thread,” she answered, “and we can use this thread to find the source, the root of the spell and counter it. But, given the length of time that had passed, it’s unlikely we’ll be able to use this method, especially as it seems there is no magical trace.

            “Instead, I think we ought to use a brand of gentle Legilimency – actually, do you know what that is?” she paused a moment to ask, and at Hermione’s nod, she continued. “Well, we combine this Legilimency with therapy and meditation, and try to encourage your memories to return organically. We’d also use certain spells and potions as a form of triggering – under very specialised circumstances, and absolutely not until you’re ready.

            “The course of treatment I’m proposing is far less invasive than the trace method, but it’ll be a long process, you should know that. Overall, it will be less strenuous on you. Regaining memories can be a mentally and emotionally draining thing, and frankly, I wouldn’t feel comfortable attempting to unlock all of your memories at once; it’s risky, and, realistically, this is your best chance of remembering.

            “So, tell me,” Demelza concluded, “how does that sound to you?”

It was a strange moment for Hermione, to be told there was a chance she could regain her memories. She felt breathless, as a burning hope, deep within her chest flared up, chasing away the shadows of doubt and anxiety that lingered within.

Draco nudged her, drawing her out from her thoughts. She turned to look at him and was caught in his dusky grey eyes, the ambiguity of his gaze underpinned by a sort of heat she was beginning to recognise.

            “You okay?” he murmured, his eyes falling to her lips, and she gave an imperceptible shiver of awareness.

She nodded, slowly, unable to look away and yet feeling very far away from anyone and everything other than those quicksilver eyes, and it was almost easy to forget...

And then someone coughed.

Hermione pulled away from him to the room at large, to see Pansy’s knowing smirk, Dean’s frowning surprise, and Demelza’s thoughtful gaze. She didn’t look at Draco. She could have blamed it on the rush of being told she could have her memories back, but it would’ve been the most outrageous lie, and she was done lying to herself.

Demelza cleared her throat, about to speak, when Pansy leaned in towards Dean, and whispered (quite audibly) in his ear.

            “I _so_ called this.”

Hermione shot a glare at Pansy, who gazed back serenely, while Draco smirked into his hand and Dean continued to frown.

            “Can I continue?” asked Demelza, her low, amused voice clearly hiding a smile.

            “Yes, of course. I want my memories back – I don’t care how long it takes,” Hermione replied firmly.

            “Okay, well, unfortunately I don’t have a huge amount of time to do this today so, for now, I’m just going to ask you some questions,” the Healer said, pulling out her wand and conjuring a parchment and quill, which hovered in midair, awaiting instructions. “Before I begin, you should know, I’ll need to question Malfoy too, seeing as he’s the one who... ‘discovered’ you, so to speak.”

            “That’s fine. I’d feel more comfortable with him here anyway,” Hermione answered, throwing a glance at Draco, and she had a feeling that, were the situation not so serious, he probably would have preened a little at her words.

            “I’m going to have to ask Dean and Pansy to leave too,” Demelza went on, shooting an apologetic look to Pansy and Dean. “It really is better if we do this properly, and that means limiting who has access to you when you’re doing this. The less people we have here, the easier it will be for you when we’re doing the meditations and Legilimency later.”

            Hermione looked to Pansy and Dean, and saw them nod, their expressions serious now. They stood, Dean absentmindedly reaching for Pansy’s hand, and they made their way to the door. As they were about to leave, Pansy paused for a moment.

            “If you need anything, just call for my house-elf Trudy. She’ll see to anything you need,” she said, “and do let us know when you’re done.”

            “Yeah,” Dean added, “we’d like to see how you’re doing after. And thanks again for doing this Demelza.”

And before anyone could reply, they were gone, quietly closing the door behind them. There was a brief moment of silence which hung in the air after they left, which was broken by Draco.

            “Before we start the questions, we need to discuss something,” he started, looking serious. “It’s about Demelza.”

Hermione swung her head to look at Demelza, who was watching Draco steadily, expectantly.

            “You remember our conversation last week?” he addressed Hermione.

            “How could I forget?” she muttered to him.

            “So you remember who Harry Potter is – and who he is to you?”

            “I do... Draco, what is all this about?” Hermione replied, irritation smudging her tone.

            “Demelza is his wife.”

            “Oh... _oh_ I see...” she murmured, looking first to Draco, and then to Demelza. “So, does Harry know about me... the Obliviation...?”

            “No,” Demelza answered, frowning at Draco. “Malfoy insisted that we discuss it with you. And... he’s right. As your Healer, ethically, I cannot break confidentiality; it would just be so wrong...” she sighed, and then spoke again. “But as Harry’s wife, I do feel a certain obligation to my husband. He would want to know this. You... you’re like his sister, Hermione, in all but name. And it nearly killed him when you disappeared. He was like a man possessed.”

_What to say to that?_

It was the strangest of coincidences, she thought... but is there ever such a thing as coincidence in a world where magic exists? It was hard to say. She had always been pragmatic, preferring to rely on her senses, on what logic and facts could provide, but this was beyond her, attempting to understand how the laws of the magical world functioned – or, indeed, if there even were laws that caused magic to function. She felt ignorant, and hated it.

But, as she tried to ignore those thoughts, thinking about Harry instead – this Boy Who Lived, her best friends, her erstwhile brother... it seemed that she did want to find out who he was, to find a piece of what had been stolen from her. And for reasons she could not understand, she began to smile, and felt the warmth of gladness, of wholeness spread through her – a feeling she had not experienced in the longest time, something she had associated with her home in Smithley Folding, with her parents, with knowing love.

            “I’d like to meet him.”

            “I knew you’d bloody say that,” Draco groaned.

            “What’s the problem?” Hermione asked, turning to him. “Do you not like him?”

But before he could answer, Demelza burst out laughing.

            “Did he not tell you? Oh they hated each other in school,” she said, still chuckling.

            “Really?”

            “Yes, yes,” Draco cut in with a long-suffering drawl. “He hated me, and I hated him, and our mutual loathing was the stuff of legends. One of the nice things about growing older is I stopped giving a shit about Potter. I’m sure he’s well able to return the compliment, now that we’re all adults.”

            “You sound charmingly bitter, Draco,” Hermione said, hiding her own giggles behind her hand.

            “Oh, do shut up, dearest. Shall we get a move on?”

That brought them all to attention, the timely reminder of why they were there.

            “You can tell Harry, Demelza,” said Hermione. “I’d like to see him, if I may.”

            “Thank you, Hermione,” the Healer replied, reaching across to squeeze her hand. “This is going to mean... I can’t say how much this will mean to him.”

            “I’m looking forward to meeting him again. Though, I have to say,” she responded, shaking her head in something like dismay, “it’s awfully surreal to be introduced to people who know more about my life than I do, who know me... and I know none of them. Makes me feel like I’ve missed a step.”

            “That’s not your fault, Hermione, so stop thinking it,” Draco cut in before Demelza could reply, and she turned to give him an appraising look.

            “He’s right, you know,” Demelza said, turning back to Hermione. “You cannot be blamed for this. Someone has done you a very great wrong, and it is up to us to help you. And actually, on that topic, we really ought to begin the questions. I’ll keep it brief, as I really am running out of time. I have to be back at the Hospital soon. Are you ready to begin?”

Hermione nodded. It felt real now. It was like turning her face to a fresh wind, and feeling her blood rising in response, feeling the singing of life in her veins and no longer being afraid. She’d spent so long cowering and afraid, restrained by own anxiety and fear. And now she wanted to face forward and find that lost part of herself, to fight for it, whatever the cost.

There could be no going back. And that thrilled her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! :)
> 
> Things will even out now in terms of updates, probably once a week until I get caught up to what I have written to date. I have a number of chapters still ready to post, so there's plenty to go round.
> 
> Coming up in the next few chapters - Hermione gets a new wand, Harry and Hermione have their reunion, and a little bit of alone time with Draco and Hermione.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read so far - and to everyone who has left a comment or kudos. You guys make my day.
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed this one, and let me know what you think.
> 
> -Millie xx
> 
> P.S. I'm also on tumblr for anyone interested. Look me up under mildred-meadowlark and maybe say hi :)


	11. Owls and Omelettes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pay attention to the timeline in this one. It jumps about a bit.

** OWLS AND OMELETTES **

_Early August 2005_

Her phone was ringing. She could hear the echoing cry of it as she hurried up the stairs to her flat, and knew who it would be. Fumbling with the key, she unlocked the door and hurried inside, dropping her things onto the table as she went.

            “Hello?”

            “Hermione,” came a familiar voice, and she felt her heart lifting and fluttering.

            “Hello you.”

            “You busy?”

            “I’m just back from work – give a girl a minute to breathe, yeah?”

            “Just now? And tell me, are you secretly living there?”

            “Shut up, Draco, or I’ll do myself a kindness and hang up.”

            “You’re pushing yourself too hard,” he sighed.

            “I’m not. I thrive on hard work.”

            “You say this like it’s a great revelation. It’s not.”

            “Grumpy, are we, Draco?”

            “Where’ve you been? You’ve been busy all week,” he grumbled, which made her smile.

            “I took a week off work,” she replied, amused. “My desk was covered in a literal mountain of paper on Monday. I’ve had to work late to catch up.” A lie, a small one, given she stayed late almost every night of the week under normal circumstances.

            “Well, are you free on Friday evening?” he asked hurriedly.

            “Why? What’s up?”

            “I’ve a surprise for you.”

            “No, bugger off with that. You’re telling me. I’m sick of surprises.”

            “Fine. I’m taking you to get a new wand.”

            “Really? _Really_?” her incredulous reply spilled out.

            “Am I to assume you’ll be free then?”

            “Yes – absolutely yes.”

            “Good.”

            “Thank you,” she breathed.

            “Hermione,” he sighed, “we’ve been through this. Stop thanking me. Trust me when I say that you of all people should not be thanking me.”

            “Why do you keep saying that?”

Silence.

            “Draco?”

            “It’s not important.”

            “It is to me.”

            “Just give it up Hermione!” he snapped, and she fell silent. Then he sighed, and continued, in a low voice. “I’ll tell you in my own time.”

            “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have”-

            “Don’t. You don’t need to apologise. I was rude. I frequently am.”

            “I know,” she replied, soft and amused. “Though, I’d say you’re more... arrogant than rude.”

            “Oh, well, I won’t deny that either. Such a glowing recommendation, don’t you think? Arrogant _and_ rude.”

            “To be fair to you, you have impeccable manners. And nice eyes. There is that... also...” she trailed off, with a flush that she was grateful he couldn’t see.

            “Yes I do, don’t I?” he answered, sounding pleased.

            “And we’re back to arrogant again.”

            “I prefer to think of it as charming.”

            “Funny, though,” she mused, ignoring his words, “you came across as rather less arrogant when we met those first few times.”

            “Yes, well I didn’t want to frighten you off, did I?”

She laughed in response.

            “I should probably go,” she sighed into the comfortable silence that had followed on from her laugher. “I have to get some work done on my masters. I can’t allow myself to fall behind. How are the manuscripts?”

            “Trying my patience. I’m working on a Byzantine piece – research, for now – and it’s turning into a minor disaster. I should probably get back to it myself. I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

            “Of course,” she replied. “Goodnight, Draco.”          

            “Night, Hermione.”

She hung up, a smile on her face, and a rosy blush on her cheeks. She was beginning to grow used to it; the smile that would sweep onto her face like a wave, along with a flush of heat and consciousness; the shiver that would follow, often accompanied by a breathy sort of sigh that was utterly foreign to her.

Their phone conversations had been a constant over the past weeks, something Hermione had begun to cherish at the end of her day. Sometimes brief and punchy, sometimes long and meandering, late into the night, and at the end of them it was hard to stop smiling, and harder still to make herself want to stop, so she didn’t bother. When she was with him, even if it was just their voices entwining in the ether, she didn’t feel alone.

Moving into the kitchen, she began to get things together to make tea and toast. She set the kettle to boil and popped some bread into the toaster, then moved over to the table where she’d unceremoniously dumped her things in her haste to answer the phone. She began sorting through her stuff, looking for a folder containing some articles on Ogham stones, when she spotted something at her window which gave her pause.

It was an owl.

* * *

 

_One week earlier_

Somewhere, in the lush hills of the Conwy Valley and hidden amongst the abundant greenery in the dip of a hill, sat a cottage. An old house it was, a sprawling series of interconnected buildings, with warren-like hallways and strange stairwells and doors hidden behind bookshelves, and a warm, bright kitchen that pulsed with life like the very heart of the place.

It wasn’t a quiet house, not with the child of two currently running rampant through the hallways, chased by his indulgent father. In the kitchen, the flames in fireplace turned green and a woman stepped out, brushing the soot off her robes. At the sound of distant squealing, she smiled and made her way towards the source of the noise.

She found them in the study, a crooked little room stuffed with books and squashy armchairs and a sturdy wooden desk. A familiar little head peeped out from under a sofa, his black hair – so like his father’s – an unruly mess.

            “Mama!” he cried joyfully.

            “Hello Jamie-the-boy,” she replied, swooping down to pull him out from under the sofa and up into her arms. “How was your day, little one? Did you have a nice day with your daddy?”

But Jamie did not answer, otherwise occupied with trying to extract mummy’s wand from her robes. She looked over to the boy’s father, standing up from where he’d been crouched behind an armchair, and smiling as he made his way over to them.

            “Hello, Harry,” she said, smiling up into his rather wonderful green eyes, glinting playfully behind his glasses.

She loved his glasses. She loved all of him.

            “Hello, love,” he replied. “How are you?”

            “Fine, I think,” she sighed. “It’s been rather a long day,” she continued, shifting James on her hip, who was still intent on getting the wand.

At once, his brow crumpled with concern.

            “Something happen at work?”

            “Sort of... We’ll talk about it later- _No_!” she cried out suddenly, as the boy managed to lay claim to the coveted wand. “James Rubeus Potter! Give that back. _We don’t touch mummy’s wand_. You know that, sweetheart.”

            “ _My_ wan’,” the little boy replied sullenly as she took the wand back, throwing her a dark-eyed, mutinous look.

            “Not your wand. You’ll get your wand when you’re a big boy,” Harry said gently, setting his hand on Jamie’s soft dusky hair.

            “Share, Mummy.”

            “No, Jamie, not this time. A wand is special,” Demelza answered him, pulling him close to cuddle him, and could feel him growing heavy in her arms, as the hour drew towards night, and she turned to Harry who was watching Jamie snuggling into her neck with a tender look in his eyes.

            “Has he had supper?” she asked.

            “Yeah, we ate at the Burrow,” he replied looking sheepish. “Molly insisted.”

            “Sure she did, you lazy thing. You just weren’t bothered cooking.”

He didn’t even try to deny it.

            “Well, how about this?” she gave him a considering look. “I’ll put the little monster to bed, if you make me one of your lovely omelettes.”

            “I can do that,” he grinned down at her, bending to kiss her lightly.

There were no shadows in his eyes tonight.

Later, when the cottage had fallen quiet and tranquil, Harry and Demelza sat in the kitchen, he reading the _Prophet_ (not quite the rag it had once been, but still not great), she eating the rather tasty omelette and sipping on butterbeer.

They both required this few moments of silence between them in their day. Harry, as an Auror, had a tendency to retreat into himself during particularly trying cases, and she, as a Healer, often needed time to process her day. The silence that wrapped between them was comforting, necessary, and precious to them both.

Demelza finished eating, pushing her plate to the side, simply waiting for Harry to finish reading. It wasn’t long before he too was finished, and put the paper down.

            “So, do you want to tell me what’s bothering you?” he asked, regarding her over the table.

            “You always know,” she smiled, softly.

            “You’re easy to read.”

            “I’m your wife,” she snorted. “You do have an advantage.”

            “So do you, Mel,” he replied with a knowing smirk. “You use it often enough.”

            “I suppose I do.”

            “So, what happened?”

She paused, gulping down a lump of emotion that tasted like both laughter and tears, and took a quick breath before replying.

            “Harry... I... It’s Hermione. She’s alive.”

            “ _What_?” he gasped the word. “Demelza, say that again.”

            “I saw her Harry. Today. She’s alive.”

She hadn’t seen him cry in the longest time. Not since Jamie was born.

It was funny, she thought, how tears brought out the vivid beauty of his eyes, how she couldn’t pull her own gaze away from them when she so hated to see him cry - most often because of remorse, or guilt, or for those he had lost, and rarely for joy.

She became aware that he had grabbed her hand, and was searching her eyes urgently, as though searching for something there that would confirm the truth of her words. He was gripping her fingers tightly and he looked tense and elated and terrified all at the same time.

            “Really?” he asked her desperately, his voice hoarse.

            “Yes.”

            “What happened to her?”

            “You’re not going to like this...” Demelza began, feeling unnaturally hesitant. Then she told him everything that had happened, about Hermione being Obliviated, how her memories of being a witch had been stolen, how she remembered nothing; how Draco Malfoy had found her in Oxford and befriended her, and told her who she was, how he truly seemed to care...

Harry gave a great sigh as Demelza finished speaking. He didn’t reply right away, and she knew he was mulling over what she’d just said. Everyone always said he was the quintessential Gryffindor; noble, loyal, brave unto the point of recklessness... They always said that about Harry – _reckless_.

But he wasn’t, not always, and certainly not anymore. Life, and death hung heavily on his shoulders, and while he had been reckless as a boy, as a man he certainly was not.

When he next spoke, his words came slowly.

            “So what happened next? Did Malfoy bring her in? I don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head.

            “Well, he got in touch with Pansy Parkinson. You remember her, I’m sure,” she said dryly. “And Pansy, as it turns out, recently got engaged. To a rather nice wizard, a Healer, as it happens, and a former Gryffindor too.”

Harry, who had been listening to her with a quizzical expression on his face suddenly sat upright, eyes widening, as the sickle began to drop.

            “Dean,” he said musingly, “Of course. I forgot he works in Mungo’s. Haven’t seen him in a while.”

            “Does that mean I get to invite Dean and Pansy over for dinner?”

Harry scowled at her.

            “Have I mentioned lately that you’re a horrible wife?”

            “Careful, love, or you can get nice and friendly with that sofa you were hiding behind earlier,” she shot back.

            “I’d say sorry, but I’m not feeling terribly remorseful.”

            “Just as well. I’d tell you to shove the apology.”

            “So, Malfoy went to Pansy, who asked Dean, who got in touch with you...?” Harry prodded, turning the conversation back Hermione’s mysterious reappearance.

            “Something like that,” she replied. “I didn’t know what I was getting myself into when he asked, mind you. I thought it was a simple house call – you know, some rich old dear who accidentally Obliviated her second cousin.

“But then he asked me to Floo over to Parkinson House, and I thought something had happened to Pansy. And then, of course, when I got there I came face-to-face with Malfoy and Dean,” she paused. “He wouldn’t let me see her, not until I’d sworn I’d keep her... presence a secret. He didn’t want me telling you, at first”-

“Why?” Harry asked abruptly, his brow forming a suspicious line.

“He’s worried about her. Think about it. Forget about the fact that it’s Malfoy – I know you don’t like him much, but he’s really not that bad, you know. You’ve said it yourself. Think about why someone would go through the effort of trying to have her memories restored, while keeping it highly secret.”

“Yes... I see... Jesus, whoever did this is still out there,” he growled, clenching his fist, suddenly furious.

“Exactly.”

“So how did you convince him?”

“He told me that it was Hermione’s decision. But that I can only tell you. No one else must know for now. No one, Harry.”

“I understand,” he nodded. “So what now?”

“Well, I have to sit down and work out how to unlock the mind and memories of one of the most talented witches of our generation,” sighed Demelza, shaking her head.

“That’s some task you’ve set for yourself,” he agreed. “Is there no one you can have involved with you? If Dean already knows, surely you can ask him to help.”

“Well, yes, I’d imagine so,” she mused. “She wants to see you,” she added.

“Hermione does?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Apparently Draco told her about you. She’s been curious ever since then.”

“Well then, we need to go to her. Where does she live? Oxford, you said?”

“Harry stop!” Demelza cut in, before he got into full swing – there was no stopping him then. “I don’t know where she lives. The only person who does is Malfoy”-

“Why?” Harry interrupted. “Why Malfoy?”

“You know how this works,” she replied, her voice soft but her tone firm. “She doesn’t know you anymore; she doesn’t know _anyone_. I know it’s fucking awful, but they are the facts of Obliviation – something I’m sure Hermione would tell you herself, if she did remember.

“But she doesn’t,” she continued, pulling Harry’s hand into her own. “And this Hermione, well, she’s friends with Draco Malfoy. She _trusts_ him. And he had to fight for that trust, Harry. She’s intensely private. She insisted that Malfoy be the only one with access to her for now.”

“So what do I do?” he asked, looking suddenly very young and rather like the bewildered boy she remembered from their school-days.

“Wait, dearest love,” she said gently, laying a kiss on his hand and then releasing it. “Give it time. She’s had a lot to take in, and in a very short space of time too. I’ll do what I can.”

“A week,” he countered, a stubborn glint in his eye. “I’ll give it a week.”

* * *

 

_Early August 2005_

Draco was on his balcony, sipping on whiskey – the Muggle type tonight – and reading a book. It was rare that he afforded himself the time to read for pleasure, but when he did, it was always a deeply immersive experience and curiously meditative. It was especially true of this particular book, _The Alchemist_ , (lent to him by Hubert the doorman) and not at all what he had expected.

The stillness of the air, the silence, was broken by the distant ringing of the phone. Not wanting Pipsy to answer the phone again (an experience he did not wish to repeat), he sighed and stood, and hurried inside to answer.

            “Hello?”

            “Draco?” It was Hermione. Of course it was. And she sounded slightly... frantic. “There’s an owl at my window, and it’s just fucking sitting there and staring in at me, seriously, _staring me out of it_ , and the cat is absolutely losing it, I mean, honestly, what the fuck?”

He couldn’t help it. He started laughing.

She hung up on him.

So he decided to really _make_ her evening by apparating into her living room.

* * *

 

It was worth it for the almighty shriek she gave.

            “Oh, fucking hell, where did you come from?”

            “You rang madam?” he smirked, running a hand through his hair, enjoying how her eyes followed the movement and the flush which crept onto her cheeks.

            “That wasn’t an invitation to apparate into my living room, you complete arsehole,” she replied, shooting him a nasty glare. “I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out when I hung up on you.”

            “I’m sorry for laughing, but you sounded fantastically unhinged,” he said.

            “It’s still there,” she muttered sullenly, pointing toward her window, “ _Look_.”

And, unsurprisingly, there was indeed an owl perched on the windowsill, glaring balefully in at Hermione. He approached the window, chuckling as he peered out at the owl, and opened it. The owl fluttered in through the window and settled onto the back of a chair, before continuing to shoot reproachful looks at Hermione.

Hermione eyed the owl warily in return for a moment, then turned to Draco, raising her eyebrows in question. He moved over to the owl, extending his hand and obediently it stuck out its leg, where there was a note attached. He took the note, giving the owl a quick stroke on the head by way of thanks, and read the address written in a scrawling hand: _Hermione Granger, Somewhere in the City of Oxford, England_.

He sighed, knowing, just _knowing_ somehow, exactly who this letter was from. It was always Potter, wasn’t it? Always him. Hermione had drawn close to him, having relaxed enough to ignore the owl in her sitting room, casting curious looks at the letter in his hand. He caught a wave of her scent – something light and elusive, and with the slight musty undertone that hinted at old books, something to him that seemed so _right_. He looked down at her, running an assessing gaze over her face, meeting his eyes with a defiant look. Her hair was fuzzy and wild, and reminded him of a younger Hermione Granger, and her eyes were bright, despite the shadows underneath, and it occurred to him that she looked happy.

            “It’s a letter. I forgot to tell you,” he said, with an abashed grin, handing over the letter, “we use owls. For our post. Not as immediate as a telephone, but they are wonderful animals – very intelligent, and loyal too – and very reliable.”

            “And very good at finding people, even without much of an address,” Hermione added, glancing down at the letter in her hands.

            “Yes, for the most part,” he agreed. “Though there are limitations to what they can do, of course.”

            “Of course,” came her sarcastic reply.

            “Aren’t you going to open it?” he asked, nodding towards the letter in her hand.

            “Do you use owls?” she asked him, ignoring his question and the letter in her hand.

            “Of course. Everyone does.”

She rolled her eyes at him and turned her attention to the letter, pulling it open and reading. He watched as her eyes skimmed eagerly over the words, returning to the top to read again, this time slowly, and by the time she’d finished she was smiling again.

            “It’s from Harry,” she said, somewhat unnecessarily, he felt.

            “I thought as much. His penmanship is atrocious.”

            “It is rather illegible,” she giggled, glancing at the letter again. “Take a look,” she added, passing the letter to him.

 

            _Dear Hermione,_

_I know this will be strange for you, receiving this letter from someone you have no memories of, and I’m sorry if I alarm you. Sorry about the using the owl too, by the way. Her name is Henwen. If I’d had your address, I would’ve just sent this through the regular post._

_Demelza told me what happened. I’m so sorry, Hermione, not that it means much right now. If you need anything, anything at all, just let us know – me or Demelza. We’ll take care of you. We’ll keep you safe. I can’t tell you what it means to know... well, to have you back in our lives again. You were always a sister to me._

_Demelza mentioned that you wanted to meet me. Whenever suits. Anytime. Wherever you want. Let me know. Please._

_Don’t be afraid._

_You’re a Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart._

_You’re family._

_Love always,_

_Harry_

 

Draco looked up and found Hermione’s eyes on him. They were warm, and gleaming with a sort of joy, and pride too.

            “Penmanship aside, you approve, I take it?” he asked.

            “He called me family, Draco.”

The starkness of the words, and the hoarse throb of emotion in her voice said more than a thousand speeches could have. Much like himself, he realised, she had nobody left. Not in the life she had now. But in the wizarding world... well she’d had a place in the bosom of not just Potter’s family, but amongst the Weasleys too, he supposed, not that he’d wish them on anyone.

            “Would you like to write him back?”

            “Yes, but not tonight. I need some time,” she answered, shooting an uncomfortable look at the owl, who was still perched on the back of the chair, looking as though it was following every nuance of their conversation.

            “Right,” said Draco, walking decisively over to the window, and pulling it open. “Well in that case, we’ll send Henwen back to Potter – you don’t want her taking up residence in your flat, do you?”

            “Certainly not. I have enough on my plate with a pissed off cat right now, thank you,” she replied tartly,

            “Thought so,” he nodded. “Right, off you go Henwen; no, we’ve no reply and no treats,” he added, as the bird fluttered over to the open window, “you’ll have to go home for that. Be sure to give Potter an extra hard bite from me, yeah?”

And with that, she was gone, soaring away over the roofs of Oxford.

            “Wait a moment,” Hermione spoke up, “How am I to reply to the letter without an owl?”

            “I’ll let you borrow mine, obviously. And as it is, did you forget that your Healer is his wife?”

            “I’ll thank you to shut up. You’re already in my bad books for being so ill-mannered as to apparate into my flat. I thought you better than that,” she shot back, a mocking glint in her eyes.

            “I can make it up to you, I’m sure,” he purred, his voice dropping to a dark huskiness.

Unable to help himself he took a step closer to her, and then another, watching as her eyes widened, but she didn’t move. Instead she looked up, meeting his gaze with her own and stepped closer, refusing to break eye-contact. Her scent clouded his senses, so alluring, and he lowered his head to hers as she moved closer still, the tension between them tightening like a knot.

He was aware of the distant thrum of his pulse, of each breath he drew, anchoring him as he looked long into her eyes, glittering like onyx, and lit with cloudy embers of desire. Then she surprised him by drawing close, bringing one slow hand up to curl around his neck, and leant up to murmur teasingly in his ear.

            “Thank you for saving me from the big bad owl,” she said, pressing her lips to his cheek, lingering just a moment too long, before pulling back.

He watched as her lips curved into an amused smile, her eyes dark and slumberous, and before he could say anything, before he could do something useful, like putting his arms around her and keep her close, she spoke again, her voice low and sardonic.

            “My _hero_.”

He wanted to grab her, pull her flush against his body, kiss her soundly, on and on, through the blue-black of the night; run his fingers through those fuzzy curls, draw his fingertips along the line of her neck, lose himself in her.

But he didn’t.

He wanted her, felt the ache for her burning in his very bones – and was no longer surprised in the least by it, stripped of past and prejudice both, and knowing want for what it was. But however much he wanted to lay claim to the unspoken desire between them, he couldn’t, not yet.

There was still one conversation left to have. There was one confession left to draw: That of his own past – this, his legacy of a Death Eater, laid to waste by alcohol and regrets and so much loss. And it was not yet one he was ready to have, in spite of his earlier promises to himself.

And so instead, he took her hand in his own, turning it over, and placed a soft kiss, slow with intent, into the her palm, running caressing fingers over the delicate skin of her wrist. Then, with a quiet apology and a quick goodbye, he disapparated, back to the quiet and safety of Erebus Towers.

He was ashamed later at the speed it took him to consume a large glass of Firewhiskey, gulping it down like a thirsty man drinks water. He was disgusted, in the morning, when he felt the pounding of his head and realised what he’d done, when he saw three empty bottles of the hellish drink. He knew it was bad. He knew he should stop.

But he didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes this is flying in. I'm almost up to date with my chapters now. I've got up to chapter seventeen written, and I'll be getting to work on chapter eighteen soon.
> 
> I've also posted a one-shot called An Investment of Apple Seeds about Pansy and Dean, so check it out if you liked reading about them in this fic.
> 
> Thank you again to all you lovely readers. I can't believe the response this is getting - seriously.
> 
> For those of you who are interested, Ogham stones are stone monuments, which are inscribed with the earliest form of writing seen in Ireland, and is one of the most ancient forms of writing in the world. They date back to roughly the 4th Century AD and mostly consist of primitive Irish, though elements of Pictish (ancient Scots) have also been found.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this update. I had a lot of fun writing this one.
> 
> -Millie x


	12. A Surprising Man

** A SURPRISING MAN **

_August 2005_

He’d been planning this since the day he’d told her she was a witch, since she’d asked for one of her own. It had been far less difficult than he’d imagined, but Ollivander was a surprising man, and for that he was thankful.

Even during the dark days of the war, when the shadow of Voldemort hung over them all, and most heavily over the Manor, Mr Ollivander had surprised him, by virtue of the depth of his wisdom and the strength of his spirit, not that Draco had much been in the position to absorb it at the time.

The first time he’d known it to be true was when he’d found himself knocking on the door of Ollivander’s shop on Diagon Alley, just over a year after the war, hiding his face from others passing by in the street, and the old man had answered.

_It was a dull, wet evening, rain plodding down determinedly, the sky heavy and grey and he was desperate. The door opened, and there stood the wandmaker, his expression rather severe in the gloomy light, but, as he stepped to the side to allow Draco admittance, his eyes were clear and free from anger, which was unexpected. The mere fact that he’d gained entrance to the man’s shop was frankly bewildering to him, after what Ollivander had experienced in his family home._

_Draco stepped through into the shop and Ollivander shut the door behind him. The shop was like a cave, dim and full of yawning shadows, and smelled overpoweringly of dust. Mr Ollivander turned towards him and regarded him sternly._

            _“I did wonder if I’d be seeing you,” he stated, his voice hoarse, though not weak._

_Draco chose not respond. He’d always found silence to be an excellent conversational weapon, and it did not fail him now, as Ollivander took a breath and continued._

            _“The last time I saw you, you were still a child... still a boy, caught in the dark shadow of his father’s legacy,” he paused. “Now, however, I see you are trying to grow into a man. What type of man, though? We shall see, I think.”_

 _Draco tensed as he listened to the wandmaker speak, and then forced himself to relax, not to flare up at the man’s presumption_ – how dare he – _but he needed the man’s help, and he had told himself he needed to come here to make amends to the man._

_It was hard. That was all._

_Still, he promised himself a large drink afterwards, knowing what that would mean, and not caring. Longing for it, in fact._

_“Do you know why I’m here?” he asked._

_“I have my suspicions,” replied Ollivander._

_“And what are they?”_

            _“I think I shall keep them to myself, thank you,” he replied with a knowing smirk. “And considering it was you who came knocking on_ my _door, I believe the burden falls on you to speak and state your purpose.”_

_He was reluctant to admit it, but he had to acknowledge the man had a point, and said as much to the older man, who allowed himself a wry smile._

_“I am here to beg your help,” Draco began, “and also to offer... my apologies.” He was aware as he spoke them how entirely inadequate his words were. How could he possibly being to express the shame, the galling remorse – how he was sickened with it, broken by regret and disgust. “I... I am not a brave man Mr Ollivander, I’m sure you know that. My actions... what I did... I have no excuse for, save that I was scared. A coward._

_“There are no words... and as it is I couldn’t possibly explain...” he continued haltingly, and resolutely not looking at the other man, because apologies were not something that came easily to any Malfoy. “You were there, at Malfoy Manor; you know who resided_ _there, and what he did._

            _“The things I’ve seen...” he had to pause as images of Charity Burbage’s despoiled body came forth unbidden –_ blood, fuck, so much blood... and the smell of death, almost tangible in the thick air _– and Draco felt his head swim, and his longing for a drink increased tenfold._

            _“I was just sixteen when I took the Mark,” he went on, clinging on bitterly. “Scant weeks after my birthday, and my father in Azkaban... It was a mess. I thought I was doing right by my family – proud, I suppose, to be taking up my father’s mantle,” he said, then sighed and continued, his voice weary even to his own ears. “It was a neat little trap I walked myself into. I wonder sometimes, did I ever have a choice? Probably not._

 _“Anyway, by the time I realised I wanted out... well, it was impossible by then,” he paused wearily. “But I need your help. And I know I ought to apologise – and, yes, I_ am _sorry – for every damned minute”-_

_But it seemed that the wandmaker had heard enough, holding up a hand to halt Draco’s lengthy speech. There was silence for a moment before he spoke._

            _“Mr Malfoy, I am not a young man, by any measure, and I have seen witches and wizards of every kind – He Who Must Not Be Named himself, lest we forget- pass through my doors, waiting for a wand to answer the call of their magic, to choose them. I remember them all. I remember every wand I have made, every wand I have sold._

 _“I remember_ your _wand, Mr Malfoy,” the wandmaker went on, eyeing Draco beadily. “Hawthorn and unicorn hair, ten inches exactly, and reasonably pliant. Do you know what they say about the hawthorn wand?”_

_Draco shook his head, unsure of where the man was going with this speech._

            _“They say that hawthorn makes for a complex wand, a conflicted wand,” Ollivander continued, “at variance with itself because of the duality of it’s nature, and drawn to those who are similarly conflicted; seeking a complexity of mind and a surety of magical talent and skill. The wand knows it’s own nature, and you can tell much about a person, simply by looking to their wand._

            _“But your wand... the wand they say killed the Dark Lord, isn’t that right? I can’t imagine they were good enough, over at the Ministry, to return it to you. Whose wand do you use now? May I see it?”_

_Draco handed the wand over without a word._

_“Not your father’s wand, I see,” Ollivander murmured, peering at the wand in the poor light. “Why don’t you use it?”_

_“It was destroyed,” Draco replied shortly._

_“I see. A pity, I think. It was an ancient wand, was it not? Very unusual too, elm and dragon heartstring, eighteen inches, rigid...” the other man, went on, sounding rather distant. “Over a thousand years old... Armand Malfoy, I believe, was the original owner.”_

_Draco felt a jolt, as he heard the history of his father’s wand, a well-cherished family heirloom, recited back to him. An heirloom that should have been his to inherit, he thought resentfully. It had been a powerful wand, but one had to be_ ready _to wield it, to harness the power the wand channelled. Draco regretted the loss of it bitterly._

            _“This wand, however,” he continued, “acacia and phoenix feather, eleven and a quarter inches, unexpectedly yielding... This wand belongs to Severus Snape.”_

_“He’s dead,” Draco cut in harshly, “as I am sure you know.”_

_“How did it come to you?”_

_“He... he left his possessions in care of my mother. She... gifted it to me.”_

_“It won’t work for you,” Ollivander sighed. “It’s likely that it will never work for anyone again.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Acacia is an unusual wood, Mr Malfoy. They make for tricky wands, even at the best of times, which is why I only keep a very few of them here in my shop,” he replied. “Once paired with a witch or wizard, the acacia will_ only _work for them – and will refuse to produce magic for any other witch or wizard who attempts to use it._

            _“However,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself, “it can be bent to the will of a witch or wizard who shows significant magical talent”-_

 _“Mr Ollivander,” Draco cut in, coldly, “are you attempting to imply that my magic is somehow_ lacking _?”_

            _“Certainly not,” Ollivander responded, looking almost affronted. “What you must understand, is that the wood is not the only element at play here. The core of the wand will react with the wood in such a way that it will amplify certain magical aspects of the wand. So, for example, the unicorn hair – in the case of the acacia wand – will enhance the fidelity and the connection between wand and wizard, but the properties of the unicorn hair will also make the wand less fastidious._

_“The acacia wand itself is subtle and immensely varied in the magic it can produce, but is demanding, as I’ve already explained. The phoenix feather, as I am sure you are aware, is a singularly powerful magical element, and the way that it interacts with the wand is exponentially different, and almost impossible to predict, even for an experienced wandmaker such as I,” he finished, handing the wand back to Draco._

_Draco found himself beginning to understand._

_“I’m going to need a new wand.”_

_“Yes.”_

_The word fell like a stone through the dusty air._

_Draco wondered would he have to grovel in order to procure a new wand. He could have found another wandmaker, bought one from the shop in Hogsmeade, or gone to France... but he had never done things the easy way, for all he liked to take the easy way out._

_But once again Mr Ollivander surprised him._

_“Come along then, Mr Malfoy,” he spoke, striding into the dusty depths of his shop. “Let us find you a new wand.”_

It had taken time, but he’d found the right one in the end. He hadn’t lingered, paying for the wand, and returning to France to drown himself in alcohol. But it was not the last time he was to see the man. Over the years, on his search for arcane magical texts and ancient artefacts, he’d turned to the wandmaker for his advice, consulting him on more than one occasion, and always coming away surprised and thoughtful.

And so, when he turned to Ollivander for help, the man had accepted the proposal with a few questions and one long, probing look. Draco had expected the man to be somewhat unwilling – especially as he was retired now – but he had shown no reluctance at all, and instead nodded with a sort of shrewd comprehension.

Which was how he ended up standing next to Hermione in Ollivander’s shop in Diagon Alley, awaiting the appearance of the wandmaker.

The shop was closed, utterly deserted, and the silence was rich in their ears. Tendrils of late evening light trickled through the narrow windows, and Draco could see the motes of ever-present dust floating in the air. Hermione’s eyes were wide and thoughtful, gaze travelling over the entirety of the shop, but she did not speak.

She was twisting her hands together in nervousness, and he found himself rubbing small, soothing circles onto her lower back. She started slightly as the thready sound of Ollivander’s voice filtered though the dusty shelves, and he came into sight.

            “My apologies for keeping you waiting, Mr Malfoy,” he was saying as he walked, but then he stopped rather abruptly as his pale eyes fell onto Hermione. “And Miss Granger? Well, this is a surprise. Forgive me, but you were believed to have...” he paused for a moment to search for the appropriate word. “Disappeared.”

            “Well, as you can see, sir, that’s not quite the case,” she replied, with a touch of asperity, eyeing the man warily.

Draco didn’t blame her. For all Ollivander was a highly intelligent wizard, and one he respected, there was something unnerving, something faintly eerie about the man.

            “Indeed,” he nodded. “Vine wood, if I recall correctly, and dragon heartstring. Ten and three-quarter inches, unusually unyielding, but all in all, a lovely wand. A most remarkable pairing, given what you achieved with it. Mr Malfoy tells me you are in need of a new wand, it that right?” he asked, peering at her.

            “Yes. Please,” she replied immediately.

And so the process began. Mr Ollivander looked Hermione over, murmuring something about ‘a fundamental change’ and ‘elemental shifts’, then disappeared into the mire of shelves that made up the wandmaker’s shop.

Draco caught Hermione’s eye, and she shot him a bewildered look, before glancing back to the labyrinthine shelves, from where they could hear muffled sounds emerging. He smirked slowly and gave her a faint shrug by way of a reply, and had to stifle a laugh when she emitted a noise that sounded something like a growl of exasperation.

Ollivander returned, clutching boxes, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. He placed the boxes onto a table and turned to Hermione, holding out the first wand.

* * *

 

There it was; her wand. She knew it. The wand was highly polished and the wood was a lovely claret colour, not too long, and quite elegant. Almost unconscious of the movement, she stretched her hand out to take the wand from the strange old man with the gleaming eyes.

She held it for a moment, running considering eyes over the richly-hued wood, unaware of anything else but the feel of it in her hand. And then, before she could even draw breath, the wand was gone from her grasp and a new one had replaced it.

            “Larch and dragon heartstring, nine and three-quarter inches, rather bendy,” the man was saying. “Go on, give it a try.”

But once again it was snatched away before she could even try using it. What exactly _was_ this Ollivander was looking for? She couldn’t understand it, and for once, wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the answer, much less ask the question.

            “Now this”- another wand pressed between her fingers – “Ebony and unicorn hair, ten inches, rather rigid.”

And again, it was gone, before she could even feel the weight of the instrument in her hand, and the whole experience began to seem a bit fruitless, as she watched the wandmaker pace amongst the shelves dizzyingly. He returned with yet another stack of wands, muttering to himself – “A clash! A clash is what we need!” – and Hermione wondered briefly if he was entirely the full shilling.

Then another wand, and another one, on and on it continued, and the last light of the day stretching itself the length of the shop, and Mr Ollivander’s expression growing more and more complex; brow furrowed, a gleam of excitement in his eyes, the faint twitching of his mouth.

But then, finally, after what seemed like an age (but really, had been maybe forty minutes or so), Ollivander placed a wand into her hand and she felt her pulse begin to race. That strangely familiar warmth, and a pull unlike anything she could recall began to sing through her frame, and then, without conscious volition she raised her hand and spoke a word that was clamouring within her, begging to be uttered.

            “ _Avis_!” she cried out, and to her surprise a flock of starlings erupted from the tip of her wand, fluttering gaily above their heads.

Hermione raised her eyes to watch them, a smile breaking out on her face – marvelling at the simple birds – _her birds_ – who had begun to settle among the rafters, high up in the roof. She turned her eyes to Draco, sharing a warm look, noting the pride lurking behind his ever-present smirk.

            “Very lovely, Miss Granger, but then, they didn’t call you the brightest of her age for no reason,” Ollivander smiled at her, and she was surprised to find it lightened his whole demeanour. “Griselda Marchbanks was a great friend of mine. She remarked to me before died that she hadn’t seen such skill and flair with a wand since Dumbledore himself. And, to be entirely fair, Miss Granger, that is really saying something.”

Hermione felt a flush of pleasure at the compliment. She could at least understand the comparison to Dumbledore, given she knew who he was now, but she had no idea who Griselda Marchbanks was. She looked down again at the wand clutched in her hand, feeling as though it was already an extension of her very self, and realised that she didn’t know what kind of wand it was.

            “Mr. Ollivander?” she asked, a rather sheepish expression creeping onto her face, “Could you remind me... which wand is this?”

            “Of course,” he replied. “This wand is ten and a half inches, made from cedar and phoenix feather, a combination which frequently clashes, but when matched correctly will create truly stunning magic. Cedar, you see, Miss Granger, is attracted to a person with great strength of character, tremendous loyalty, and unusual perception. It makes a wand of hidden depths, and drawn to those whose potential runs deep.

            “Phoenix feather,” he continued, finding an eager audience in her, “as you are most likely aware, is a remarkable magical element, and rare enough too. It is the most powerful element I use in my wands – highly intuitive, with a vast scope of magical power – but it is also the most difficult to master. The force of it’s magical character frequently clashes with the strong nature of the cedar wand, but this wand, I think you’ll find, is a very harmonious pairing indeed.

            “And, if I may be so bold Miss Granger, I think that this new wand will pair very well with you – especially in light of your own magical alterations,” he finished, the faintest hint of a sly smile around his mouth and a knowing gleam to his eye.

Hermione felt herself freeze at his concluding remark. _He knew_. She shot a quick panicked look at Draco and noted the surprise in his eyes, though he hid it better than she did. She stared at the man, unwilling to let him get to her, refusing to be unnerved.

            “The wands know, Miss Granger. They can tell,” he said, after a moment of heavy silence.

            “I see,” she replied slowly.

            “Do you?” he asked, not unkindly, but with actual curiosity. “I think, perhaps, at this moment, you don’t, but that you will. You will remember, and you will understand then.”

            “I think it’s time to leave,” Draco cut in, his voice sounding sharp in the muted air of the shop.

            “Yes, Mr Malfoy, I believe you are right,” nodded Ollivander, turning his gaze to Draco. “Miss Granger, it has been a most unexpected pleasure to see you again,” he went on. “I hope you will drop in to see me again soon. Both of you.”

Hermione moved to take some money from her bag – how much was a wand anyway? – but Draco’s hand on her arm stayed her movement. Before she could protest, Draco had handed Ollivander a small pouch, which the man took with a brief nod of acknowledgement. Then, without another word, the Draco turned and headed for the door of the shop, leaving Hermione to wonder.

She did not move to follow. Instead she stood for a moment in front of the old man, regarding him carefully. His face was lined, thoroughly, with furrows and crevices in the pale flesh, and despite his eerie manner, there was a gentleness and a warmth in his expression that bespoke a kind nature.

            “Are you... are you well acquainted with Draco?” she asked in a quiet voice, not wanting Draco to overhear.

            “I know him reasonably well, Miss Granger,” Mr Ollivander replied, his tone equally low. “You know, as a boy, he struck me as arrogant yet deeply insecure, and desperate too, but now... well, I would say he has developed into a good man, a principled one. You can trust him, I think.”

            “Do I have a reason not to trust him?” she asked, this time with some urgency laced through her voice.

            “I don’t know. That is for you to answer,” he answered, in the same low murmur he had before.

In frustration, she made to turn away from the wandmaker, but his voice, still hushed, stalled her a moment more.

            “Miss Granger.”

She looked to him, a final time, impatience painted clear across her face, nor did she try to hide it.

            “You must bear in mind... he is a most surprising man. Don’t forget that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is probably my favourite chapter to date. I adored writing Ollivander. He is my dude.
> 
> I wrote this chapter during a very difficult time for me personally. At the time, I found it very hard to write and it took me a long time to write it, but it turned out being one of my favourites. It also gave me a chance to incorporate some wandlore, which is longtime love of mine.
> 
> Thank you to all you lovely readers for sticking with me so far. I'm totally blown away by the response to this fic. So much love to you all. I really hope you enjoyed this one, and I'd love to know what you think.
> 
> -Millie xx
> 
> P.S. I'm also on tumblr @mildred-meadowlark, so stop by if you like, say hi maybe :)


	13. Looks Like Rain

** LOOKS LIKE RAIN **

_August 2005_

The weekend settled with a wave of dry, excessive heat that built and built, bringing with it a kind of oppressive stillness that seemed to permeate, even in the blue-black of night. Too hot even to run. Work at the Bodleian had finally settled down into something of a late-summer lull, so Hermione found herself idling through Saturday and Sunday, with only Min and the new books Draco had given her for company. And they made for fascinating reading.

She’d tried a few of the spells, at first sounding out the incantations with a wondering hesitance, but soon found herself flushed with pleasure as she tried each new spell, with varying shades of success. For the most part she got them right. She enjoyed playing with a _Silencio_ , trying it out on the cat, and found herself conjuring some delicate, and quite ethereal looking, blue flames. She’d also attempted the transfiguring spell that Draco had shown her that first day – _Tintibulus!_ – but had found it beyond her, and while that frustrated her to no end, she became absorbed in the theory of it, and soon there were notebooks scattered across her sitting room floor.

The heat was distracting though, she had to admit. She had her windows thrown open to let in whatever little air there was, but it was no use. The spate of good weather had gone from languorous sunny days to a cloudy heaviness that spoke of thunderstorms and lashings of rain, whenever it finally broke.

Hermione found herself thinking of Harry, too, whoever he was, wherever he was. Soon, she told herself, quelling the rising tide of questions.

_He called me family_.

She wondered what he kind of person he was, what looked like. Draco had neglected to mention that, though he had given her a copy of _Hogwarts, A History_ as a gift. Inside he had inscribed the words, _Your favourite, or so I’m told. DM_. She’d begun reading it last night, after she’d finished up her work for the evening. For once, she wanted to have her work schedule clear for the weekend.

She couldn’t imagine what it was like to have lived - and learned - somewhere like that, for all that she had spent seven years of her life there, or so it said in the book. Pictures of the great castle were dotted through the book, and each time she stumbled across one – whether an artist’s depiction, or a faded photograph – she felt a momentary tremor within herself, a lurch of recognition, that told her she knew this place.

She found herself examining the towers, the arches, the harsh stone facade; running idle fingertips over the surface of the books, wondering if perhaps she would be allowed this one thing, to remember this place.

She wondered, absently, as she read the book, if she’d perhaps encountered it in a dream. One of the peaceful ones, perhaps. Much and all as she hated to acknowledge the dreams, especially the ones which chased restful slumber from her bones and made her doubt the shadows in her darkened flat – even the ones which had been... relatively peaceful; all of them had the too-vivid air of being entirely real.

They _felt_ like memories.

It was hard for her though. Even accepting something which defied logic in the way that magic did, had been difficult for her, despite all proof to the contrary. Believing that her dreams – the very ones which had plagued her for years- had actual meaning was just as difficult to accept. Thinking of them as memories had helped – but not much.

She knew Demelza wanted to look into them further when they began their sessions properly, later on in the week. Hermione had great confidence in the witch’s abilities, and liked her very much, but it was the value of the dreams that she doubted, whether they could be of any use at all.

Another part of her was scared, and she disliked having to admit that, even to herself.

She was afraid that the very worst of the dreams – the ones that left her scrabbling at her own skin, pulse pounding, and silent screams on her lips – that they would turn out to be true, and that she would have to acknowledge the reality behind the dream. And somehow, she couldn’t explain it, not really, she knew – she just _knew_ – that the reality would be far worse than anything the dream could have conjured.

It made her miss Draco, who had been there to listen to every doubt and question, who had bought her a wand, and chased off disgruntled owls, and she was surprised by how much she missed him. She wanted to ask him... ask him many things. She knew how she felt about him was complicated. She tried not to think about it, which was just how she dealt with things she didn’t really understand.

It was the same with the dreams, she supposed.

As it was, Draco wasn’t available until Monday. Something about visiting his mother, though why that should have him completely cut off from all civilisation, Hermione didn’t know. And still, she did miss him.

And so, the weekend ambled on, with Hermione sprawled on her floor eating copious amounts of ice cream and occasionally silencing the cat, or levitating it, just to be sure she could.

On Monday, she returned to work, and battled her way through the day. In the way that these things typically happened, the air conditioning was being difficult and decidedly not working. The heat, and exhaustion, got the better of most of the staff – Cassie, after tearing the head off Norman, disappeared not long after lunch looking hot and uncomfortable, followed swiftly by about half of the office. Hermione held out ‘til sometime after three, but eventually succumbed, at the urging of Jules (‘Hermione, for God’s sake, just get out of here! Too bloody hot to work. Madness in this heat!’) and headed for home.

She found Draco waiting for her outside her flat.

He smiled.

She didn’t bother fighting her response.

            “Hello,” she said, softly, and with a rosy smile.

            “Miss me?” he asked, the smile segueing into an all-too-familiar smirk, as he strolled towards her.

            “That’d be telling, wouldn’t it?” she replied, raising a brow.

            “That’d mean yes, then,” he said, moving ever closer to her, and Hermione felt her heart begin to pound.

            “You know, I don’t have to invite you up,” she shot back, avoiding his eyes as she rummaged for her keys.

            “You know, doors aren’t really an impediment to someone like me.”

            “God, you’re insufferable.”

            “Now, be fair. I am no god, Hermione.”

            “How trite,” she commented, shooting a quick look at him, as she unlocked the door. “I expected something with a bit more flair than that.”

            “You wound me,” he replied, attempting to look agonised.

            “Hardly,” she said, rolling her eyes and walking into the hall. “And in any case, I’m sure you’ll recover.”

He didn’t answer, following her in and they headed up the stairs to her flat. She paused outside her door, fumbling with her keys as she became aware of how close Draco was standing, feeling the intensity of his gaze on the top of her head.

She slid the key into the lock, and as she turned it, she slipped a glance his way, caught by the fathomless expression in his eyes, and felt her heart give a little shudder, before gathering her wits and pushing the door open and walking into her flat. The room was stuffy and humid, and she wished she’d left a window open.

Draco followed her in, shutting the door behind him, and she quickly moved into action, opening as many windows as she could. Min came prowling out of her bedroom, and rather used to Draco now, she immediately headed for him, purring round his legs in greeting.

            “I’m just going to get changed – it’s too hot,” she called out heading into the bedroom, leaving him in the sitting room with the cat, who was now writhing on the floor, begging for a belly-rub.

She left the door ajar, trusting Draco not to peek, and well, she didn’t think she’d mind all that much if he did. She threw her work clothes onto the floor and turned to her wardrobe. As she was throwing on a cotton blouse and jeans, she heard Malfoy call out to her.

            “I received an owl from Demelza Potter. She’d like to meet this evening.”

            “A bit of notice would be nice, don’t you think?” she cried, exasperation creeping into her voice.

            “I’m sorry,” he replied, calling back to her. “I only got back at lunchtime. The owl arrived at my home in London, and I only saw it today.”

Hermione pulled her hair up into a bun, keeping the heavy weight of her curls off her neck, and walked back out to Draco.

            “It’s fine,” she said, shrugging. “Where _were_ you exactly?”

            “I was visiting my mother. She lives in a chateau in the south-west of France. She prefers to live a life of profound seclusion ever since... you know, the war,” he sighed, then went on. “And the death of my father hit her very hard, too.”

            “Sometimes seclusion is necessary,” Hermione replied after a beat of silence, knowing very well how restful and profoundly serene solitude could be. “Sometimes,” she continued, moving over to him and then bending down to stroke the cat, “it can be the closest thing to contentment a person can manage, to be still and aware, to be acknowledging of the pain, yet knowing it is not time to address it. There’s healing in that.”

            “Even you can’t deny that isolation is also a dangerous thing,” he said, shooting her a curiously heated look, and the corner of his mouth twisted into a sneer. “It’s a poison, as well as a cure. Don’t try and lie to me, Hermione, because I _know_ , I know the fucking danger of it, I know what it _does_ to a person, and you’re a liar if you think you don’t know it too.”

And for a moment Hermione was stunned, not by the sudden (and oddly familiar) disdainful quality of his tone, but by the searing accuracy of his words and _how_ _could he know_?

She knew he’d been lonely at school, and that he lived alone, but he seemed (for the most part anyway) to be a charming, and even charismatic person – if a bit arrogant. She’d assumed he had friends aplenty in the wizarding world – and it seemed to her that he certainly had... but appearances could be deceptive, something she knew all too well.

He didn’t like to talk about himself much. At least, not his past, which she had only heard him refer to in a very vague way – and then had a sudden feeling that he was hiding something from her. Nor was it the first time she’d wondered what he wasn’t telling her.

            “No, I can’t deny it. And I wouldn’t lie to you, Draco,” she said, her tone quiet, and then she paused for a moment, feeling the taste of an unspoken question on her lips. “Can I say the same of you?”

Draco, so pale even in the very middle of summer, turned faintly ashen, and ran an unsteady hand through his hair, and then Hermione knew, absolutely knew for sure.

            “What is it?” she asked, her voice a harsh breath. “And don’t you dare lie to me Draco Malfoy.”

A tense moment passed, heavy like the weather, as Hermione stared at Draco, unblinking and unrelenting, and he visibly squirmed in discomfort.

            “I... I don’t know if I can tell you...” he said, looking down in defeat, then back up again, to meet her eyes. “Honestly, Hermione, I think we’d need to check with Demelza”-

            “That sound like a cop-out to me,” she snapped, unimpressed.

            “Hermione, please,” he added, sounding suspiciously like he was begging, and somehow she knew it was about more than just asking Demelza.

            “What is it Draco?” she asked, her voice falling into a soft lash. “What is so bad that you cannot tell me? Do you think I’ll throw you out or something?”

There was nothing but silence, and he refused to look at her, turning his gaze towards the window, out onto the sky which had turned grey and ominous, much like his eyes, and she took his silence as his assent.

            “Do you really think,” she asked again, watching him carefully, and she noticed the faint tension banked across his shoulders, “that I’d do that, to _you_ , after everything you’ve done for me? Nothing you choose to tell me will make me run away, or toss you out of my home. I haven’t yet.”

And then, finally, he turned his head, slowly, to look at her, searching her face carefully, and whatever it was he saw, it seemed to satisfy him.

            “Fine,” he sighed, his shoulders relaxing, but only a bit, “but it’s a long story, and I’m not giving you all the gory details. But it’s going to have to wait till later, and there had better be alcohol, understand?”

            “Why later?”

            “Because,” he explained, as though to a young child, “we have a meeting with Demelza, remember?” He grinned wickedly, his composure suddenly recovered, as she gave him her blackest scowl. “And we really do have to head off soon, you know. And... there’s something else, Potter will be there too.”

            “Harry?” she asked, her eyes lighting up with curiosity.

            “The very Chosen One himself.”

Hermione felt a thrill of excitement go through her, in the every beat of her heart.

            “Great,” she replied, grabbing her bag from the sofa, where she’d flung it earlier, checking it for her wand, which she had taken to carrying round with her, though she didn’t dare use it outside of her flat. “But don’t think you’re off the hook, Draco Malfoy. I shall supply the alcohol, and you will provide the tale, however obscured it may be. Deal?”

            “Deal,” he grunted in reply, looking momentarily frustrated, but she was surprised she’d even gotten that out of him.

            “Good,” she answered, a smirk settling onto her features, as she walked over to him. When she’d reached his side, she turned to him and asked, “Shall we go, then?”

            “As to that, don’t you think you should start allowing Potter and Demelza to owl you directly? You know, give them your address, like a normal person.”

            “Yes,” Hermione mused for a moment, “I daresay I ought to. Demelza, in particular, should be able to reach me. She _is_ my healer, after all.”

            “But not Potter, no?” Draco asked with a small smirk on his face.

            “Don’t be petty,” she admonished. Knowing what she did of Draco’s rather ridiculous-sounding rivalry with the apparent ‘Saviour’ of the wizarding world. He’d actually called Harry his archenemy at one point, and if that wasn’t taking a schoolboy grudge too far, she didn’t know what was.

* * *

 

Draco apparated them out to the village of Little Conwy, though to call it a village was exceedingly polite. A mere huddle of pretty stone houses, clustered about an irregular green, bedecked with flowers, and a scattering of absurdly lush trees. There was an austere, heavy-bricked church, with a graveyard full of yellowing grass visible to the back and a tiny pub, which boasted the additional perk of being both the village shop and the post office. And that was it.

The only other feature of note was the so-called ‘Fairy Well’, where locals would go and toss a pin into the well and make a wish. It was a simple rock affair, covered in vivid greenery and almost overgrown with nettles, found less than half a mile down the road from the village, rather awkwardly located in the middle of a field.

And it was there that Demelza had said she would meet them. It all seemed a bit elaborate, Draco thought.

Beside him, as they fought their way through a hedgerow, Hermione was almost twitching with nervous energy. She’d lost that pallor of anxiety she’d worn ever since he’d seen her that first day in Oxford. There was a curious lightness to her movements, one that was conveyed in her every gesture, in the quirk of her very brow and the curving of her lips into a soft smile.

He was surprised, admittedly, at her good humour after what had happened earlier at her flat. He thought for sure that she would throw him out, and yet here he was scrambling through a field, searching for the elusive Fairy Well.

He was most decidedly not looking forward to their ‘chat’ later on. And he seriously hoped she would follow through on her promise of alcohol. It would be necessary; he couldn’t do this without it, he knew.

There was a crack, sounding strangely muffled in the mugginess of the late afternoon heat, and Draco’s eyes fell on the diminutive of Demelza Potter, stomping through the patch of nettles into which she had apparated with a ferocity which belied her tiny frame.

Hermione caught sight of her, and picked up her pace, heading off towards the other woman with a smile on her face. Demelza’s own expression was welcoming, as she reached Hermione. Draco chose to amble along at his own pace.

            “Hermione! How are you? Goodness, look at your tan! It suits you,” Demelza asked, pulling Hermione into a hug. “You look well. I’m glad to see it.”

            “Hello, Demelza,” Hermione replied as they pulled away from each other. “Good to see you again.”

            “Hi Malfoy,” Demelza called to him as he reached them, and he nodded to her in reply. “Looks like rain, doesn’t it? You both ready to go? Right, so I’ll apparate us to the house and then next time we needn’t go through all this rigmarole, seeing as you’ll know where it is next time.”

She reached out then, grasping at their arms and pulling them into a swift turn. In the next moment, they had landed, the sprawling mass of the Potter’s cottage appearing in front of their eyes. The gardens were lush with old twisting trees, masking the property from the rest of the world, and ripe with deep green bushes, and patches of long, irregular grass, and a riot of summer flowers. There was even a crop of dirigible plums drifting serenely in the eddies of warm air, which were watched greedily by a fat little gnome.

The house itself was made of old, mellow stone, and embroidered by the encroaching growth of dog roses and ivy, with low, deep set windows and an irregular roof, sprawling warren-like and relaxed. The sky sat heavy and purple above them, almost caressing the surrounding hills and valleys.

Demelza stepped away from them, and Draco found himself moving towards Hermione, sheltering her smaller form, as though he could protect her from... from what? From the inevitable reunion between old, and long-separated friends? From the pain that he knew she would feel? He didn’t know.

Demelza opened her mouth to speak, but was distracted at the sound of a high-pitched, anguished wail of a young child peeling itself out of one the windows. A frown crossed her brow, and her eyes chased to the heavens in a brief roll, before she gave a knowing grin.

            “Sorry,” she said, her tone faintly sheepish. “That’s Jamie, my son. Harry was supposed to have dropped him over to my dad’s, but clearly James is winning that argument. He _always_ knows how to manipulate Harry.

            “I don’t think it’s a good idea for him to be around while we do this – kids have absolutely no discretion, believe me – so give me a couple of minutes to ship him off, and then we can get started. You don’t mind waiting out here, do you?” she asked apologetically. “I think the rain will hold off another while yet, and I really won’t be long.”

With that, another shriek, followed by a loud (and very angry) cry , “Nooooo!” could be heard echoing from the house, and Demelza’s eyes widened. Her lips thinned, and with that she set off towards the house, trailing a number of very audible curses in her wake. Draco could hear Hermione giggling somewhat madly.

He looked down at her, tucked close to his side, smiling warmly up at him, and for a moment he was reminded strongly of the Hermione he recalled from Hogwarts, from before the mess their lives had become. He remembered seeing her, many times in fact, smiling up at Potter, or Weasley, even, in precisely the same manner, and wondered what that meant.

There was a painted wooden bench tucked away beneath a cluster of birch trees, and without any discussion between, they started towards it. Draco sank down onto it, pulling Hermione down along with him. She fell against him with a gentle slump, and they seemed to settle together like two books on a shelf, well-read.

With a barely-there sigh, Hermione allowed her head to drop to his shoulder, and then his head – without any conscious volition - tilted slightly to the side, falling gently against her hair, and there they sat quietly, with her scent and presence enveloping him till he realised, with something of a start, that he felt – for once – at peace.

From the near distance, where the clouds hung heaviest, came the growl of thunder, and Draco raised his head. Hermione lifted her own head from its position on his shoulder and cast an enquiring glance at him.

            “I like thunderstorms. The whole world seems to shake and then fall silent,” he said, trying to explain, as she looked at him steadily. “There’s something cleansing about them.”

She continued to gaze at him, a flickering, unreadable expression in her dark eyes and he wondered... he wondered, not for the first time, what she saw when she looked at him, what would she see when she eventually remembered. He refused to look away from her, didn’t dare blink, because he was so sure he’d never have another moment like this with her again.

And then, slowly, she blinked and when her lids lifted, there was something, there, in her eyes, like the slow burning of embers; something unhurried and heated, lustful, and he felt it in the depths of his chest. He felt her moving closer rather than saw it, because his gaze had dropped to her mouth and he wanted to devour it, like a cherry, and pull her right against him until she _understood_ -

 And then suddenly (except it hadn’t really been sudden, had it?) her face was close to his, her lips less than a breath away from his and the moment stretched between them by a thread, tense and aware and waiting, feeling as climactic as the thunderstorm swirling in the clouds above their heads.

And then-

And then, she pressed her lips to his – a glance of softness and precision that made him freeze momentarily – and then all it all fell to heat. She brushed her mouth against his and pulled away, before weaving back again and kissing him more firmly, and it felt amazing. He gave a muffled groan and slid his arms around her, pulling her closer, closer, until she was flush against him and let out an answering whimper.

He deepened the kiss, running his tongue across the curve of her mouth, taunting, flirting, and her arms swept up around his neck, one hand creeping up into his hair. He gave her bottom lip, so luscious, an indulgent nip and chuckled when he heard a moan catch in her throat.

He was no longer aware of time or place, as he teased his tongue into her mouth, into the heat and taste of her, and felt a throb of lust course through him. His hands began to wander, traversing her waist, her hips, the small of her back, and down to the curve of her ass, and then, just as he was about to pull her closer still-

            “Hermione? You still out here?” Demelza’s voice came carrying through the air, followed by an abrupt snarl of thunder.

They pulled apart, eyes wide and breathing hard. Draco could feel the thrum of his pulse, in his palms, in his very fingertips, and felt a savage need simmering under his skin and wanted to tug her back into the cover of his arms and kiss her until the world burned itself out.

Hermione regained her composure (he reluctantly noted, given his state) with admirable swiftness, casting a burning look his way, before turning away in search of Demelza. Sucking in a few deep breaths, he shook his head, as though to clear it, and made to follow Hermione.

He found the two women chatting at the back door, and he watched as Demelza ran an assessing eye over both of them, and it occurred to Draco that she had a very good idea what had just happened between himself and Hermione only minutes ago.

The flush on Hermione’s face, for one thing, was telling enough.

            “Well,” Demelza said, as another crack of thunder rumbled through the sky, entirely imminent now. “We’re all ready to go; Harry should be back now and the house is at least partially clean. That’s about the best I can offer you, along with a pot of really excellent Yorkshire tea and some of Molly Weasley’s treacle tart.”

            “Actually,” Draco put in before Hermione could speak, “I think it would be best if I gave Hermione and Potter some privacy, don’t you? I can’t imagine either of them want bystanders”-

            “You’re hardly a bystander, Draco ,” Hermione said.

            “And anyway,” he went on agreeably, ignoring Hermione completely. “All the excess of emotion will be disastrous for my complexion. I’ll cool my heels out here for a while, and we can let the Chosen One and Hermione get reacquainted.”

Demelza raised her brows, but said nothing.

Hermione, however, had something to say – unsurprisingly.

            “Demelza, could you give me a moment with Draco? I just need to have a word with him,” she said, shooting him a pointed look. “I’ll be into you in a minute.”

Demelza merely shrugged, and turned back into the house, leaving Draco alone with Hermione once more.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, as the thunder sounded once again, loud and immediate, in the very air that they breathed. Then Hermione stepped close to him once more.

            “I meant what I said, Draco Malfoy. We’re not done here.”

And on those words, he felt the first droplets of rain begin to fall – fat and heavy and fresh. And within a matter of seconds, those first smatterings of rain grew into a joyful deluge, coming down in waves and sheaths.

He looked up to the sky helplessly, knowing he was done for, letting the rain fall wildly into his eyes, and then back at her before finally answering her.

            “I know,” he said, then paused a moment before adding inanely, “Looks like rain.”

She let out a small, rueful chuckle then she stood on her toes, and pressed a kiss, pliant and hot, onto his cheek, and turned and walked into the house.

Leaving him alone with the rain and his thoughts.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter because it's almost the weekend, and what a long week it's been.
> 
> I'm a bit... meh about this chapter, even after editing it, but it kind of needs to be here. Because ~reasons~ lol  
> And also the kiss. Yes, the kiss. In the RAIN. Thunderstorm. Both.
> 
> Anyways, thank you everyone for reading - I hope you liked it. Thank you also to everyone who commented on the last chapter - your kind words were very much appreciated :)
> 
> -Millie xx


	14. Old Friends, Bookends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this chapter is taken from the Simon and Garfunkel song of the same name. It's an old favourite of mine.

** Old Friends, Bookends **

_August 2005_

As she walked towards the house, her mind was filled with a strange kind of buzzing, something that sounded like white noise and felt like vertigo. She wanted to put it down to the fact that she was finally meeting Harry, but it wasn’t that.

It was Draco.

She could feel his heated gaze on the back of her neck, and she was determined not to look back at him, not even once. Her heart was pounding, and her cheeks felt warm – and the rushing, buzzing sound that filled her ears, and made her brain itch.

 She hadn’t been able to help herself though.

The moment had been building, she knew, for some time – since their first meeting, even. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t been attracted to him, even back then. And she was startled when she realised it had scarcely been a month since that day in the New Bodleian.

Demelza was waiting for her in the house as she shut the door behind her, leaving Draco outside in the tumultuous rain.

            “Is he really staying out there in that rain?” the Healer asked incredulously.

Hermione shrugged.

“Apparently so.”

            “You sure you’re ready to do this?” Demelza asked, watching her closely.

            “Yes,” Hermione replied, taking a deep breath, needing it, and giving a shiver as she felt the cold lick of a raindrop on her neck, the clinging strands of her damp hair.

            “Okay then. But if you’re not comfortable, you need to tell me, and we’ll stop straight away - alright?”

But before Hermione could answer a door at the far end of the hall swung open.

There stood a tall man, dark haired and rather scruffy, with vivid green eyes, shielded slightly by the glasses that seemed to be at risk of falling off his face. His face was handsome, thin and quite angular, and scarred in places, and he appeared to be missing a tiny bit of his left earlobe.

His eyes darted around the hall a moment – scattering to Demelza, then to Hermione, then back to Demelza, and finally settling on Hermione with a kind of disbelieving intensity. He took a halting step towards her, his hand twitching, as though he wished to reach out to her, she thought - but he checked himself.

And Hermione was thankful. She didn’t think she could bear to be touched at that moment. She felt as though she was holding herself together with twine, thin and fraying now. Meeting these people - those who’d grown up with her, who knew more of who she’d been than _she_ did - was wearing. And she didn’t know that she could really trust them. What if it had been one them who’d done this to her? How could she possibly know?

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to face up to it. She did. But meeting Harry was something she knew, instinctively knew, was important - and if he touched her, she’d know he was real, and then she would unravel, then tears would follow, and frankly, she was sick of tears.

So, she simply allowed him to study her. His face, which had fallen into a heavy frown as he examined her, was written with an expression that was deeply sad, something that was so private and vulnerable and _exposed_ , Hermione felt almost ashamed to be witnessing it. And there was a strange moment then, where Hermione felt something shift between them – and it was then that she felt she might understand.

Harry _needed_ her.

Was this what he meant, when he said they were family? He looked like a man who’d been lost, seeing his home for the first time in so many years. And Hermione knew that this was how he felt, though she couldn’t quite explain how she knew that. But she just did. And it was unnerving for her to have this feeling, this instinct tickling up the base of her spine, and for some reason made her uncomfortable in a way the knowledge of her magic didn’t.

So she spoke.

            “Harry...” she tried, but didn’t know what else to say, for it had occurred to her, that she knew nothing about him, not really, anymore.

But it didn’t matter anyway.

            “Hermione...” he croaked, realisation dawning across his brow. “Oh, god, Merlin – it’s actually you”- but here he broke off, his eyes becoming glassy with tears, and he blinked rapidly to master them.

Then, with a brief glance to Demelza (who Hermione had almost forgotten was still there with them in the hall) Harry strode across the hall and pulled Hermione into a hug – hard and fierce and tight, as though he was afraid to let her go. She could feel the thud of his heart against her own chest and hear the muffled sobs which he did not attempt to hide.

The sound of them broke Hermione’s heart – and she felt her own eyes burning with tears, and she fought them bitterly, not understanding _why_ , casting her eyes about to Demelza, who was wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her robe.

Then, he pulled away, and looked her over, his expression warm and his eyes steady, and disbelieving. She could see the faint tracks of tears on his narrow face, disappearing into the scuff of his unshaven jaw. She could feel the echoing traces of tears on her own cheeks, having lost the battle to keep them contained.

There was a kinship there, one she couldn’t explain, or deny. It was like... it was like knowing the very fabric of another person’s soul, understanding the quickenings and nuances of their mind. She must have known it once, because she recognized it for what it was now.

And in the next moment, they both opened their mouths to speak, and their words crashed into a jumble in the air as they were drowned out by yet another quake of thunder.

            “I can’t believe”-

            “How did you”-

And then the thunder passed, and they both let out a little chuckle each, and Demelza cleared her throat, looking pleased.

            “Shall we move into the sitting room, or, you know, somewhere slightly more comfortable than the back hall?”

Hermione gave a little giggle that sounded nervous and thin to her own ears, and Harry shrugged, as Demelza shepherded them down the hall, through the kitchen. She waved her wand absently in the direction of the kettle, which filled itself with water and set itself over the fire to boil.

They moved to the sitting room, a comfortable room in jewel-toned colours, with shabby, solid furniture, and lots of cushions. It was a room made for talking and contentment. Hermione was already eyeing up a teal-hued armchair, nestled in a corner beside a beaten bookshelf.

They sat down – Hermione claiming the armchair, Harry sprawling on an ugly orange sofa, and Demelza on a violet footstool beside him – and, if it was awkward for the very briefest of moments, no one mentioned it.

            “You okay, Hermione?” Demelza ventured, before the silence in the room could become profound and brooding.

And Hermione, safely ensconced in the blue embrace of the armchair, comforted by the books at her side, found she could respond without it being too much of a lie.

            “Thanks Demelza, I’m fine.”

And it was true. She _was_ fine.

She didn’t know that she could completely trust any of these people, except for Draco – though he had his secrets too – but she knew that she had to, if she wanted to know the truth. She had to _try_ , at the very least.

And that was a driving force, it spurred her onwards – she wanted throw herself into her memories, even knowing what that meant, because she _had to know_.

            “So, I thought you and Harry might like to catch up a bit,” Demelza spoke, interrupting Hermione’s train of thought. “And then, I might try putting you under a mild form of a sedative charm and see if we can’t unearth a few of your more innocuous memories. Nothing too strenuous, I promise.”

            “Sure,” Hermione nodded eagerly.

She and Demelza turned to look at Harry, who hadn’t yet spoken. He was watching her, his expression rather dumbstruck, and his hair was even messier than before, glasses still askew.

            “Wake up, Harry, you great fool,” Demelza chided him, though her tone was gentle.

He started slightly, and they shared a look, one where many things were said, but exchanged no words, and Demelza raised her hand to his, flung out by her shoulder where she leaned back against the orange sofa, and twined her fingers through his for a fleeting moment.

            “So have you any questions?” Demelza asked, turning her attention back to Hermione.

She wasn’t quite ready to talk about herself – not yet – so she turned it back to the couple sitting opposite her. She regarded them thoughtfully for a moment. They fit well together; the way they moved, and spoke to each other, and watched each other with care. And Hermione wondered...

            “How did you meet?” she asked curiously.

            “Quidditch,” came the reply, from both of them, and then they grinned at each other.

Which, thankfully, Hermione understood. Draco, after getting her to explain cricket to him one day, had decided it was utter nonsense, and given her a book about Quidditch. It had seemed quite mad to her – not that she had seen anyone play it – and awfully dangerous, which may well have been the appeal.

            “We played Quidditch together in Hogwarts,” Harry clarified, beginning to look more comfortable.

            “And we were all in Gryffindor together?” Hermione asked.

            “Oh, been reading up on that, have you?” Demelza chimed in, looking pleased.

            “Don’t suppose it was _Hogwarts: A History_ , was it?” Harry added, with what resembled like a sly grin. “It was”-

            “My favourite?”

            “Yes, actually,” he said, looking a touch surprised. “How did you know?”

            “Well, Draco told me;”- she saw Harry hurriedly masking a sour look - “he gave me a copy last week,” she replied. “And... if I’m being honest, I can see why it was. I’d love to see it. Will I still be able to?” she asked.

            “I don’t see why not,” Demelza answered, with a quick shrug. “After all, it’s not as though you aren’t a witch anymore. The charms on the castle wouldn’t work on you. You’re still Hermione Granger.”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile at that.

            “So we were all in Gryffindor together, yes?” she asked again, trying to draw the conversation back.

            “Yes,” Harry replied, running a hand through his hair, “though Demelza was a few years behind us. She was a Chaser on the Quidditch team.”

            “And Harry was the Seeker,” Demelza chipped in.

At some point in the middle of this, a tray bearing a pot of tea, with a decidedly homemade tea-cosy perched untidily on top, a number of cups, and a plate stacked high with biscuits came soaring into the room, and landed with an inelegant bump on the coffee table in the middle of the room.

The conversation flowed easily after that, and Hermione told them, with no small amount of pride, about her work at the library – about the restoration she was overseeing, about her masters degree, and her love for her work; and then about her flat and her bizarrely-named cat, and finally about Draco; how he’d met her at Oxford, and everything that had happened since then.

She didn’t want them to know about the hospital yet. She didn’t even want to _think_ about it.

Finally, Demelza began to make the motions that seemed to indicate she wanted to begin the work on Hermione’s memories, and for a very, very brief moment, Hermione wished she could hold off a few moments more. She knew she would have more time, more memories to make, but it was hard not to be greedy.

Demelza went to a cabinet, small and sturdy, tucked away in the corner of the room. She pulled out a small basin, made from a highly-polished red stone, and inlaid with cracks of gold and bronze. It was filled, not with water, but a strange substance that seemed to be liquid yet not, less substantial – rather like mist, but it was yet unlike that too. Hermione stared at it rather unabashedly, fighting the urge prod it with a finger.

Demelza set it down on the table, and looked up to meet Hermione’s curious gaze.

            “It’s called a Pensieve,” she said, already knowing the question. “It’s a magical object, used to store memories. We’ll be using it in our sessions. I need to have it handy, if you remember anything significant, or anything at all really. We’ll be using it to piece together a sort of portrait of your life, sort of as an aid, if you will, for your memory. Does this make sense?”

Hermione nodded, and Demelza continued.

            “Good. To begin with, I want you to take a deep breath, in and out – yes, like that – even and slow,” she instructed, in her low, calming voice. “Close your eyes. I want you to meditate like this for a moment or two, nice and relaxed.”

Hermione sat in her chair, back straight, eyes shut to the world, breathing slow and clear, though her mind was whirring with endless questions. But then, she always had questions. The room was quiet and still, save for the faint shuffle of movement from Demelza and Harry, and then, when her breaths had become deep and regular, and the tension had slid away from her shoulders, she heard Demelza speak:

            “Now, I’m going to place you under a mild stupor charm, and I don’t want you to fight it at all, if you can.” She paused and then called out, rather melodiously, “ _Soporifius_.”

And then Hermione’s head began to droop, as her senses blurred slightly; her hearing distorted and watery, and she felt her own consciousness slither away, leaving little but a comforting blanket of black.

As it was, she was scarcely aware of it when Demelza breathed her next spell.

            “ _Legilimens_!”

It was a shock, then, when the sudden blackness, the vague, soft caress of neither caring nor knowing, flickered back to life and Hermione was suddenly thrust into a strange series of images – one of an enormous castle, brilliantly lit against an autumnal sky; another of a vast library that reminded her strongly of the Bodleian; and another, of a round-faced boy holding a frog – no, a toad, she told herself – who she inexplicably knew was called Trevor. A few more followed, half-formed and opaque, and then the blackness, the drowsiness, enveloped her once again, and she found that she cared no more about the images of only moments before.

There was a rush of the murmuring of voices in her ears, and a moment or two of disorientation (it was familiar, and in no good way), as she struggled to remember where she was, and then she awoke fully. There, looking down at her with creased brows and serious eyes, were Demelza and Harry, and she was seated, still rather relaxed in their cosy, mismatched house.

And Draco... he was in the garden, likely soaked to the skin. Had she really left him out there?

And then, her mind moved to the images – memories? – touched on each of them, allowing her thoughts to fold them over, like cloth in her hands. It wasn’t as though she was shocked; no, certainly not. She wanted to know more. She shook the last of the languor from her frame and sat up a little straighter.

            “Well, that was interesting,” she said.

            “You remembered something?” Harry blurted out, unable to stop himself.

Demelza shook her head at him in exasperation, and then turned her attention back to Hermione.

            “Excellent,” she said crisply. “Can you describe what you saw for me? Were there any clear images?”

            “Yes, actually,” Hermione replied, “there were three.”

            “Three?” asked Demelza, with an eager nod. “Marvellous. Can you describe them to me?”

            “The first one was a castle,” she began, slowly, ponderously, “Hogwarts, I think – at least, it looked rather like the picture in _Hogwarts: A History_ – and then the next one was a library, a beautiful one. Actually,” she paused to try and recall it, “it reminded me of the Bodleian. And that’s one of my favourite places in the world.

            “The last one...” she said, frowning slightly. “The last one was a boy. A young boy, ten or eleven maybe. He was holding a toad... called Trevor. The toad’s name was Trevor.”

She’d been looking down at her hands, twisting and clenching them in her lap as she spoke, but as she finished she drew her gaze up from her lap and looked to Demelza and Harry. Demelza was smiling. Harry’s face was expressionless but behind his glasses, Hermione could see that strange intensity again.

            “And after that,” she finished, “it was more... shadow, and sound. I can’t remember anything else.”

            “This is a great start, you know, Hermione,” Demelza said, with a decisive nod. “Now, I want you to focus on that last memory – the one of the boy and the toad. “

We’re going to try and open up the vein of that memory a little,” she went on, “so I’ll be putting you back under stupor charm, but this time I need to you to think only of the boy, and the toad – Trevor wasn’t it? Then, I’ll be using Legilimency, as lightly as I can, to try and expand that memory for you.”

Hermione nodded. She was better prepared this time around. She knew to expect the slip and slide into merest consciousness; the strange apathy, and the flooding of sound and light and vision into her mind.

            “Are you ready?”

            “Yes.”

            “Close your eyes, deep breaths, and focus.” Demelza’s voice came low and soothing. “I want you to focus on the memory of the toad, think about the boy. Allow their image to fill your mind, nothing else,” she continued. “Ask yourself who they might be? Think about it.”

So she did. She thought about the boy, clad in black, with his round face and anxious eyes; she thought about the way he clutched at the toad, almost as though it was a teddy bear. And as she did, she pulled in more of those deep, calming breaths, and found herself slipping into that relaxed, almost trance-like state. It was easier this time.

And then it was still and silent, save for the faint pattering of rain, and in the next moment Hermione heard Demelza speak again.

            “ _Soporifius_!”

She was aware of nothing else then, except for a distant impression of shape and sound, and she itched to make sense of it. It came into sharp relief a moment later, and the form of the boy emerged once again, crisp and entirely solid, continuing to bloom and grow until it emerged – a true memory.

_She was in a train compartment, alone and nervous, but masking it with a book. She liked her magical textbooks, large and weighty and full of things she’d never dreamed of, and they were good to hide behind. The door slid open and there stood a boy, dressed already in his black robes, and clad with round anxious eyes, and an honest face. He pulled a trunk behind him, and an ugly-looking toad protruded from one of his pockets._

_“Hullo,” he said, blushing. “Do you- do you mind if I sit in here with you?”_

_“Not at all,” she said, scooting across the seat to make room for him. “I’m Hermione Granger. What’s your name?”_

_“Neville,” he replied, as he sat down. “Neville Longbottom.”_

_“Is it your first year?” she asked him, eyeing him carefully._

_“Yes,” he mumbled._

_She felt a rush of relief. At least she wasn’t alone now. Everyone else had paired off, and she knew nobody. She wondered if it was obvious, that she was from a Muggle family, that all of this was overwhelmingly new to her._

_“It’s mine too,” she ventured. “I’ll miss my mum and dad a lot.”_

_“Are they Muggles?” he asked, flushing with colour again._

_“Yes, it was such a surprise. My parents were ever so shocked to find out,” she replied. “What about yours?”_

_“Oh... well...” Neville stammered, looking uncomfortable for the briefest of moments. “I live with my gran, but she’s a witch – all of my family are – so it was expected that I would end up going to Hogwarts.”_

_“Do you know what house you’ll be in?” Hermione asked._

_She was incredibly curious about the idea of the Hogwarts houses, and what they said about a person. Her book_ Hogwarts: A History _had some very interesting sections on the Hogwarts houses, and she rather like the sound of Gryffindor, or possibly Ravenclaw._

_“Mum and dad were Gryffindors, and gran was before them, and so was Uncle Algie, so it’s expected that I’ll follow them,” Neville said, looking rather alarmed at the prospect. “My second cousin Howard – he was sorted into Slytherin, and, well, we don’t see much of him. I suppose you could call him the black sheep of the family.”_

_“I do hope I’m in Gryffindor too,” Hermione replied, nodding eagerly. “I was reading about Godric Gryffindor last night, and it sounds so fascinating. I can’t wait to see the castle. Did you know it’s protected by the strongest Muggle-repelling charms in the British Isles? Apparently, if a Muggle catches sight of it, all they see is a ruin, and then they’re overcome by a feeling that they have to be somewhere else so that they’ll rush off.” She paused a moment for breath, and then took off again. “And that’s if they can even find it. It’s meant to be one of the most heavily-protected buildings in Europe – almost impossible to find, unless you know where it is already.”_

_Neville gaped at her._

_“Where did you learn all that?” he asked. “Didn’t you say you were Muggle-born?”_

_“I am, but I’ve read most of our books already. And my parents let me get some extra books too – it’s my birthday in few weeks, and they won’t see me, so they got me an early birthday present.”_

_“Didn’t you ask for an owl or a cat or something?”_

_“No, there are owls at the school, and my dad’s allergic to cats, so I thought I’d best not. I’d rather have books anyway. Do you have an owl?”_

_“No,” Neville shook his head, with a glum little sigh. “I’d love an owl, but gran says I have to earn one first. Uncle Algie bought me this toad – he’s called Trevor...”_

_But Neville was suddenly looking around the train compartment, his eyes darting and his expression aghast. He stood up abruptly and began searching in earnest._

_“Neville, are you okay? What is it?” She asked, in concern._

_“It’s Trevor – he’s gone,” he mumbled distractedly, now crouched on the floor of the compartment, looking under the seats. “Where’d he go? He was in my pocket just a minute ago...”_

_“Oh dear...” Hermione replied, standing up too. “Here, Neville, let me help.”_

And then, the image began to weaken and sag before her eyes, and within the merest moment, it had melted away. It was dark and still and serene, there - deep inside her head - in the place where half-thoughts form, like drops of condensation on a window. She could feel it, the moment the spell was lifted, and the mistiness began to clear from her brain.

Her eyelids fluttered, and the room swung back into focus. She sat up, this time eager to discuss what she’d seen. Harry and Demelza were both sitting on the orange sofa, alert and ready.

            “His name is Neville. I remembered him,” she blurted out, unable to keep it in. “Neville Longbottom. I met him on the train to Hogwarts.”

            “What else did you see?” Demelza asked, smiling broadly.

            “He lives with his gran, he said – and all of his family were in Gryffindor... and his Uncle Algie gave him the toad. And I was there, I know I was...” she said, her heart beginning to race as the realisation of what she’d seen washed over her. “I _remember_ it. I can remember the smell of the compartment – like... like soot and damp, all musty. And the feel of the seats underneath my hands...”

And, as her voice trailed off, Harry stood and walked over to the cabinet in the corner of the room. He opened it and took out a picture frame, and brought it over to Hermione. She took it from him with an enquiring look, before turning her eyes to examine the photograph.

It was a picture of Harry and Demelza’s wedding day. They were arm in arm, wide smiles on their face, surrounded by friends. They looked younger – Demelza’s hair was longer, Harry’s face was softer – and buoyed with happiness.

            “That was taken at our wedding,” Harry said softly. Hermione raised her gaze from the photo to look at him. “Four years ago this November. You see that dark-haired guy standing by my left shoulder?” he asked.

Hermione’s eyes flew to the face of the man in the picture, feeling that she already knew what she would see.

His hair was slicked back in a formal style, and face was thin and hollow, his eyes dark and soulful, but full of the same joyous expression as the others in the picture. But she knew him. It was Neville. And she remembered him.

She remembered him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one for the weekend! I plan on posting the next one tomorrow, as I'm gearing up to post a newly written chapter on Sunday.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for reading!
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed this update :)
> 
> -Mills xx


	15. Chapter 15

** HOME TRUTHS **

_August 2005_

The worry sat like a leaden lump in his stomach, a sick twist of anxiety, and he knew there was no getting away from it now. The rain had soaked him through long ago, not that he cared. He'd been sitting in the Potter's garden for close to an hour, maybe more, when at last the door opened and Demelza stuck her head out, grimacing at the rain, which had turned from frantic lashings to a more depressing, persistent drizzle. She looked around the garden in search of him, and when she caught sight of him she gave a yelp and called for him to come into the house.

"Malfoy, you utter fool, have you been sitting in the pissing rain this whole time? Are you dense? Get over here!"

He walked over to her, not in any particular hurry. It wasn't as though he could get any wetter.

"Merlin's beard," Demelza said, shaking her head in dismay, "you're wet through. Have you never heard of an _Impervius_? Come on then; into the house - I'll sort you out."

He shrugged, but stepped into the house nonetheless. He said nothing, simply looking around him, as he dripped water onto the floor.

"You're not as gobby as Harry led me to believe," she observed, pulling out her wand and casting a warming charm. “Though every bit as stupid.”

"That's quite the compliment," he replied drily, as warm air wrapped around him like a blanket.

            “Yes, well, you’ve plenty of time to prove me wrong.”

He didn’t answer. She looked askance at him for a minute, and he knew that she was running those shrewd, assessing eyes over him, but he chose not to acknowledge it. She’d only ask questions – and Draco wasn’t answering any of them.

Of course, that was all at an end now anyway.

He had to tell Hermione everything. Or rather, an amended version.

He wanted to do the right thing – he did – but he risked the prospect of losing her, and that chilled him in a way that the torrential rainstorm had not. He didn’t want to think about why that was, though that kiss they’d shared only complicated matters more.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t wanted it though. He had. Badly.

And as he thought about it – the kiss, the rain, the feel of _her_ – knowing that it would likely be the only time he experienced such a moment, he felt a bleakness and a burning thirst in his throat, one that wouldn’t be soothed by something as insipid as tea or pumpkin juice, but rather the slick fire of a fine scotch. He blinked rapidly, and cleared his throat, as though the ache there was merely a speck of dust, but it wasn’t. It really wasn’t.

            “Where’s Hermione?” he asked, attempting to distract himself. It didn’t work.

            “She’s just down in the kitchen with Harry,” she replied with a shrug, flicking her wand again, and casting a drying charm. “They’re chatting.”

And regardless of how much she tried to hide it, no matter how much pride she took in her professionalism, she could not disguise the unmitigated joy in her eyes.

            “So she remembered?” he asked, feeling an uncomfortable squirm in his chest.

He was arrested by the idea that she’d had an unprecedented breakthrough and somehow remembered everything, and _he hadn’t told her the truth_. And funnily enough, that thought was every bit as chilling as the telling her the truth.

So either way he was fucked.

            “She remembered something,” Demelza said, waving her wand once more, and ending the charms. Then she turned, leading him down the hall. “Let’s get you some tea – and maybe a Pepper-Up potion. Hermione can tell you about it herself.”

            “Wait,” he demanded, laying a hand on her arm.

            “What is it?” she asked, turning back to him.

            “Hermione... she knows I haven’t been terribly forthcoming with her about my past. I haven’t known how much to divulge to her, how to explain.” He sighed before continuing, running a hand through his unpleasantly wet hair. “So, you’re her healer. What can I tell her without jeopardising her recovery?”

Demelza merely stared at him, and he felt a sort of savage satisfaction as he realised he’d surprised her.

            “She’s insisting I tell her something,” Draco went on, trying to explain, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. “Help me out here. I’m not the enemy.”

She blinked rapidly, before gathering herself and speaking.

            “Scant details. No particulars. Tell her about your childhood, as far as you can,” she told him hurriedly. “As little about your own interactions as possible, and try to keep the mentions of anything directly concerning what happened to her during the war for now. No specific memories, you understand? It’s difficult. Now that we’ve begun, there’s no predicting what will trigger a flashback for her.”

            “I need to tell her about... She needs to know what I was,” Draco informed her gruffly.

Demelza shook her head in exasperation.

            “Does she need to know now?”

            “She wants me to tell her tonight.”

            “Fine. But _no_ particulars. Nothing about your crazy aunt, nothing about _him_ or anything that happened to her.”

            “That’s a given,” he snapped.

            “Well thank you for telling me, all the same,” she conceded. “If anything goes wrong, Floo me and I’ll come straight over. At least we can prepare. Well,” she sighed, “come on then, let’s get you that Pepper-Up.”

He walked into a large kitchen, warm and welcoming, and saw Hermione sitting at a scrubbed table, her hands clasped around a cup of tea. Potter was seated opposite her, and they were absorbed in conversation. Draco felt a curl of jealousy course though him like an illness

He took a moment to remind himself that Harry Potter was a married man.

A happily married man.

He glanced at Demelza and saw that she was watching Hermione and Potter with an enviably serene expression. Then Hermione broke off, and turned to him, her gaze dark and warm, a half-smile on her lips, which turned knowing and ripe with allure as their eyes met in a heated glance.

            “Oh…” she said, her voice rather soft. “Hello. Your hair is dripping wet, you know.”

            “Yes,” he replied absently, suddenly finding it difficult to see anything but her, though he tried to shrug it off. “The rain. How”-

            “I’m sorry for leaving you in the rain like that,” she cut in, a blush creeping reluctantly onto her cheeks.

            “It’s fine,” he said, shrugging again. Beside him, Demelza smothered a laugh. “How did it go?”

            “I remembered something. Or someone, rather,” she said, with a small smile, which grew into something brighter. “Neville Longbottom.”

At her words, the snarl of anxiety unravelled, and he was able to breathe again. He dragged in a welcome breath. He could see Potter watching him carefully for his reaction – but he had no intention of satisfying his expectations, whatever they may have been.

            “It turns out we were friends,” Hermione offered, unable to keep the smile from her face. “I… I think Neville was my first friend. I remembered meeting him, you see, on the train. Really remembered.”

They stayed a little while, Hermione finishing her cup of tea, Draco the Pepper-Up potion Demelza had forced on him, as Hermione told him about what she’d remembered. But once they’d covered that, they were left only to make idle chatter. It had a slightly stilted feel to it. It was a stark reminder to all of them that though Hermione may have been sitting with them in person, she was not the girl they remembered but someone wholly altered.

Hermione made the first move to leave, much to Draco’s relief. She began gathering up her things, and thanking Potter and Demelza.

            “I know very little about… about all of this,” she sighed, raising her hands, as if to indicate the entire situation, “but what I do know is that today I remembered something. Something real. And I have you to thank for that,” she said as she turned to Demelza, gratitude plain on her face. “I thought I was mad for the longest time, you know… so thank you for proving me wrong.”

Draco allowed a smile to cross his face briefly, as he watched Hermione out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t help it, despite the irritable knot of disquiet still simmering low in his gut. She looked to him then, catching the trace of a smile on his lips, and she bowed her mouth to a smile of her own.

Then she turned her gaze to Potter, moved cautiously to give him a hug and Draco watched as the other wizard pulled Hermione gently into the circle of his arms, and realized that he was losing the fight against himself, and tried desperately to deny it.

* * *

 

After they’d left – Malfoy had Flooed them away – and Harry watched with a multifaceted kind of bitterness that he couldn’t explain. The Draco Malfoy that Harry had known in school was not the man who’d stepped into his house today with wary eyes and an inexplicable friendship with Hermione Granger.

But then… well, Harry wasn’t sure that she really was Hermione any more.

People changed. He knew that.

But it didn’t stop the pain that he’d felt – watching her unthinking trust of someone who’d once professed to hate all of her kind. And if Harry were being honest with himself, with the benefit of hindsight, he knew that Malfoy didn’t think that way - that he never really had. Malfoy hadn’t thought he was better than all muggleborns, he’d thought he was better than absolutely everyone, the obnoxious shit.

            “You’re brooding,” Demelza’s voice fell softly into his ear, as her arms slid around his waist. “Do I need to ask what about?”

            “No,” he replied with a heavy sigh. And then after a beat or two of silence: “She’s different. Like the Hermione I knew, but… not.”

Demelza let out a rich little chuckle, and Harry smiled at the sound of it.

            “I daresay she’d say the same about you.”

            “Do you think she’ll remember me?” he asked, and his voice sounded very small, even to his own ears.

            “It’s early days, Harry. You know that. If we rush it – well, you know the risks. And then you’ll never get her back.”

* * *

 

The clink of the crystal glasses as they knocked together was complex and satisfying, and a balm to Draco’s fretful mind, as he scooped up the tumblers and the bottle of Firewhiskey. There was an odd, rushing feeling of foreboding gathering in his chest, knew it was a dangerous thing, but really didn’t care for it at that moment.

He wanted to be reckless.

If he was going to do this… tell her the truth… then, he needed to be reckless. He needed to be numb.

He strolled into his sitting room, affecting an ease he didn’t have, to where Hermione stood, watching the rain patter heedlessly against the windows, and the leaden sky, as the sound of distant thunder rumbled.

She turned at the sound of his footsteps and moved towards him, but her face was unreadable.

            “I come bearing Firewhiskey,” he said, raising the bottle and glasses a fraction, and he saw her eyes flick down to them before returning to meet his gaze with a quizzical frown.

            “Firewhiskey?”

            “A truly delightful wizarding beverage,” he replied, a grin skirting his face, as he stepped past her and set the bottle and glasses down on a coffee table.

            “Alcoholic, obviously,” she said, still frowning.

            “Strongly alcoholic.”

            “I thought I was supposed to provide the alcohol,” she went on, barely acknowledging his words.

            “Does it matter?” he asked, impatience making his tone gruff.

            “I suppose not,” she replied carelessly, though her tone verged on sullen.

            “How very passive-aggressive of you, my dear,” he observed as he turned to pour them both a drink.

He wondered, as he picked up the bottle, if she’d attempt to hex him.

Instead, a thread of laugher reached his ears, and he turned back to her. Her face was suffused with a rosy flush, and she’d brought her fingertips to her mouth, as if to contain her giggles. He handed her a glass, meeting her eyes with a brief, rueful grin.

She brought the glass to her nose, and sniffed at it, reminding him of a disdainful cat, then brought it to her lips. He saw the moment of surprise and appreciation that bloomed across her face, as she raised the glass to her mouth for another taste. He raised his own glass to her in a salute, and took a restrained sip, though he dearly wanted to toss it back and feel its fire coating the back of his throat.

Watching her closely, Draco noticed her sip a few more times at the glass, quick and nervous, and then suddenly her eyes locked to his. Her gaze was dark and deep, black like coffee and rich earth, and her expression was difficult to fathom. They were standing, still and rather awkward, only a few feet from one another, and yet, it felt like something further than that.

There was a wealth of the unspoken in the waiting stillness between them.

Hermione looked away, inhaling rapidly for a moment or two. And then, to Draco’s astonishment (and admiration), she tossed the alcohol back like a pro, gasping slightly as the burn that felt like slow embers began at the base of her throat, spreading out in fiery tendrils, to tickle and warm the body.

He knew it well, that warmth.

He gave a wry chuckle, causing Hermione to look at him again, and he shot her a sardonic grin before throwing the Firewhiskey back against his throat, appreciating the burn – needing it – picking up the bottle to pour himself another one.

            “You want another?” he asked, raising a brow.

She handed him her glass, and this time he was more generous.

            “So do you want to start, or shall I?” she said, wandering away over to a bookshelf to examine some of the titles of the books nestled there, sipping idly on her refilled drink.

She was deliberately not looking at him, Draco thought..

            “Why don’t we have another few drinks first,” he replied, playing for time. “I did warn you that I would not be doing this sober.”

That got her attention.

            “So you did,” she mused, then she scrunched up her nose, thinking a moment, and sauntered over to the sofa and sat down, watching him with heavy-lidded eyes.

He allowed his eyes to travel over her, meeting her eyes first, lingeringly; then down over her shoulders, her breasts; and further, into the narrow of her waist and to the flare of her hips; and then her long legs. He felt a graze of heat that had absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol he’d just poured into himself.

Still, he chased it down with a gulp of Firewhiskey, and then made his way, almost prowling, over to where Hermione sat, dropping himself down next to her. Close, but not _too_ close.

She blushed, but didn’t say anything.

            “So what did you think of Potter?” he asked as he threw his arm across the back of the sofa, because he really did want to know, and the alcohol was beginning to take effect, loosening his tongue.

She smiled faintly, and sipped on her drink again before answering.

            “I liked him,” she said simply.

            “Succinct.”

            “Well, I don’t really know him anymore, do I?”

            “Hmmm,” he paused for a moment to consider it.

            “I can’t remember him at all,” she said, rather matter-of-fact. “Not a thing.”

            “But?”

            “But what?” she asked, a disingenuous smile tugging at her mouth.

            “But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” he probed, watching her intently, through half-lidded eyes.

She hesitated before replying, mulling her thoughts like the drink in her hand, a slow swirl.

            “I don’t remember him,” she began with a sigh. “But I _know_ him. There is something in me… in him, maybe – I don’t know… and it compels me,” she said in something of a rush, then shook her head. “I can’t explain it. I mean… I only met him, and yet… it’s as though I completely understand him.

            “But if I try to think of something, remember something, _anything_ , about him, then… nothing, It’s blank,” she went on, looking straight at him. “And I can’t quite reconcile that. It doesn’t… It doesn’t fit.”

            “You aren’t doubting yourself again, are you?” he asked, frowning.

            “No, not exactly.”

            “So what is it?” he tried again, but she was being unforthcoming, hesitating again.

            “I feel all of these things,” she finally said, “like today with Harry, or the memory of Neville – and they’re like instinct. I know them, like I know that I have a nose on my face. And yet when my mind searches for more, there’s nothing there.

“It’s just… difficult. I can’t… I don’t know what to do with that,” she finished, her voice trailing off lamely.

            “Well you’ve no context for any of these memories, or anyone in our world anymore, do you? So how can you be expected to make sense of what you’ve seen, or anyone you’ve met?” he asked, matter-of-factly.

She looked thoughtful at that.

            “I can tell you a bit, if you want?” he offered, knowing the answer already.

She nodded swiftly.

            “I met you on the train, same as Neville Longbottom,” he began. “Everyone gets the train. It’s called the Hogwarts Express. We used to Floo there, to the train station, or my parents would Apparate with me –but I know there’s an entrance for the Muggle-borns, from King’s Cross.”

            “King’s Cross? In London?” she asked, twisting her brow quizzically.

            “Yes, concealed from the Muggle public, apparently. I’ve never used it, actually. Never had the need,” he replied with a shrug. He’d never really thought about it before. He’d never had to. “Anyway, I met you while we were on the train. You were actually looking for Neville’s lost toad. You talked a lot.” He paused. “It was rather… disconcerting.”

And it had been too. He still remembered. She’d come bustling into the compartment he’d been sat in with Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. He’d always liked them. They were quiet, and slow, and had made for good friends.

He’d been entirely thrown by Hermione, her younger incarnation. She’d suddenly appeared, wild haired, and rather tiny, babbling as many facts about the wizarding world as she could manage into single sentence, and asking imperiously about a lost toad, and talking about how she’d seen Harry Potter, and did they know he was in a compartment just down the way?

He’d assumed, wrongly, for a moment or two that she was pureblood, and had wondered who she was, until she’d mentioned that her parents were dentists, and had to explain…

And then he had known, and he’d had to bite down on his confusion, while an unconscious sneer rose to shape his mouth. And she’d seen it – and understood immediately. Of course she had. She’d been astounding even then.

Not that his younger self would ever have admitted it.

            “How was it disconcerting?” she asked, sitting forward eagerly, and then swerving slightly to avoid sloshing her drink all over herself.

            “Ah well…” he said, wondering how to go on. “You how remember how I told you that my parents are descended from two ancient magical families?”

She nodded, and he knocked his drink back once again – fervent mouthfuls of Dutch courage – to bolster his nerve. It was now or never – at least let it be on his terms.

            “Well... They’re part of a group of magical families known as the Sacred Twenty-Eight. My family, the Malfoy family, we’re one of the more ancient and… illustrious bloodlines. We’re what’s known as ‘pureblood’,” he said, watching her closely, and then, when she tilted her head as if in question, he went on. “Blood is important in the wizarding world. Or, rather, it was.

He sighed, knowing that it was not precisely the truth – that bigotry and ignorance and prejudice still existed in factions across wizarding society, and that he had once been the poster-boy for all of it.

            “Many witches and wizards…” he went on, trying, trying, and struggling. “Many witches and wizards of pureblood descent believed themselves to be superior to people like you. Muggleborns. They believed that their magic was better, that their blood was better. That Muggleborns were an anomaly… an abomination.”

He shot a look at her and watched as her face grew rather pale, looking narrow and horrified.

            “It’s an old conflict,” he sighed. “Very old. It flared up again in the early part of the twentieth century, and then again in the seventies. And then, once again, about ten years ago.”

But she hadn’t heard him. She was still wan and stricken, eyes wide, and her hand… She had brought her hand up to her forearm and was running her fingers absently over the tattoo, and the ragged scar which lay beneath.

And then, through stiff lips:

            “ _Mudblood_ ,” she breathed, in a voice devoid of any inflection.

Then she blinked a moment, and her eyes refocused on him, and he could see that she was beginning to put the pieces together. A Muggle-born, a war hero, an ancient conflict, and a scar slurring her arm.

Yes, she understood. He could see it, though she tried to shy away from it.

            “I’ll have another drink,” she said, her voice clipped.

No argument from him. With a quick wave of his wand, he summoned another bottle of Firewhiskey. Just in case. It wouldn’t do for them to run low.

He poured them each a drink from the open bottle, setting the extra bottle on the coffee table in front of them. She took a quick gulp, coughing slightly, and shot him a defiant look. He lifted his glass to her in a silent salute, and followed suit.

Neither spoke for a moment.

            “Do you know how I got it?” she asked suddenly.

He didn’t need to ask what she meant. He just didn’t know how to answer.

Of course he knew. But that… that was much too close to the bone for comfort, and even worse for her.

He couldn’t tell her.

Still, reluctantly…

            “I do.”

            “And?” she probed.

            “Not tonight.”

She scowled.

            “I can’t. I… It would be a bad idea,” he tried, grasping for the words. _How to explain?_ “It would risk everything that Demelza is trying to do for you. There’s a chance that she might kill me, actually.”

            “How is it you know?” she asked, the imprint of her scowl still there. “Is it common knowledge or something?”

            “Please Hermione… I can’t tell you. I will. But not now.”

            “I’ll find out you know,” she replied fiercely to his denial. “You can’t keep it from me. _I will find out what happened_.”

Her eyes were glossy and bright, though whether it was from the Firewhiskey or emotion, he couldn’t say.

            “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” he said, his voice low and resigned.

She set her glass down onto the table in front of her with a sigh, then sat back and folded her arms. She turned her gaze to him, piercing and intent, and he held himself still under the weight of her examination.

            “So many things you can’t tell me,” she said in a ponderous voice, never taking her eyes from him, and though her tone was soft, her expression was hard.

            “I know.”

            “You lied to me.”

            “Not precisely…” he tried, but it came out as something of an unconvincing mumble. He wondered how he could explain, without telling her everything. But then, he didn’t want her to know everything. And yet, if that were the case, why was he so intent on helping her regain her memories?

            “A lie of omission, then?” she prompted, relentlessly, a glint of maliciousness in her eye.

And he couldn’t deny it. So he said nothing, and she nodded with grim satisfaction.

            “I thought as much. I think it’s time you explained, Draco.”

The moment stretched into silence that felt like a hangman’s noose around his neck, and he reached instinctively to refill his glass, which he’d emptied without noticing.

            “As you wish,” he said, as the golden liquid splashed into his glass, soft and satisfying, and he took a quick gulp. “You know,” he sighed briefly, “it ties in a bit with what I was telling you – about the blood prejudice, the wars… There’s too much to tell really, for me to properly explain it, and I think you know that.”

She looked annoyed by that, but didn’t dispute it. He took a deep breath, and then the quiet moment before the plunge.

            “Well… as I told you,” he continued, “I’m descended from two ancient pureblood families. The Malfoys and the Blacks. Both part of the Twenty Eight. And part of that… heritage… meant upholding certain beliefs.” He paused to look at her. “I think you can gather what they may have been.”

She nodded guardedly.

            “I grew up knowing nothing more than the superiority of my family name, my magic… my blood. I learned it at my father’s knee,” he said, hearing the chord of bitterness in his own voice. “I’d never even met a muggle-born until Hogwarts. And he told me that they were stupid and unkempt, filthy creatures – borne of people who were little better than the basest of animals. This, _this_ , is what I knew to be true. Until Hogwarts.” He paused and went on bitterly. “No one told me they were _normal_.”

Hermione, brows raised, her mouth twisted into an expression of disgust, swirled the remnants of her drink and threw it back, before reaching across to take the bottle from his hand, muttering something that sounded oddly like ‘ _Fucking hell_ ’.

            “My father,” Draco went on, “many years ago – before I was born – joined a group of… likeminded people. His father had been in it before him, and, I suppose, he wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps. Only natural… I wanted the same myself, when I was younger. It was expected.

            “They were a group who were bent on establishing, without question, the dominance of purebloods – over the wizarding populace, over Muggles, over everyone. They were known as the Death Eaters. And they were led by”-

He broke off as Hermione let out a noise that sounded like something between a gasp and a repressed cry. He looked at her, eyebrow raised, wondering for a brief, frantic moment if she’d remembered something.

And then:

            “Lord Voldemort.”

            “You remembered something?” he asked, making a sudden, abrupt movement, he was almost unaware of.

            “No,” she replied, shooting him a sharp look. “Why? Am I personally acquainted with him?”

 _No_ , he thought, _but I was._ And then he forced himself to suppress a shudder, tamping it down with another aggressive swipe at his drink.

Instead, he shook his head.

            “I read about him,” Hermione offered, a pebble into the ocean of silence.

            “No surprises there,” Draco said with a wry chuckle, sipping his drink.

            “He’s mentioned in _Hogwarts, A History_ as one of the most feared Dark wizards of the century.”

            “Well… that’d be about right,” he said, taking another, liberal mouthful of the Firewhiskey. “And my father, and grandfather before him… they were among his most trusted followers.”

He stopped, unable to continue, as the vivid imagery of some of his darkest memories flashed before his eyes. And then Hermione, rather unexpectedly, reached across to him and took his hand.

            “And you?” she asked, the merest trace of a waver in her voice.

He looked at her hand, slender and soft, wrapped around his own pale one, and the tattoo, vivid on her arm. He pulled his hand out of hers, and made to roll up his sleeve. Gathering the material between his fingers, he pulled it up, exposing his forearm to reveal his Dark Mark.

Faded now, but not entirely gone, never gone, he recognised the twisted irony in their respective scars, but found little humour in it. And, in a gesture that mirrored his own on the day he had seen her Mudblood tattoo, she reached across once more to pull his arm towards her so that she could study it more closely.

She scooted closer to him, placing his hand into her lap, and ran gentle, enquiring fingertips over the surface of the skin. He could smell her; something that was like the rain, and books and something else, something sweet and clean. Her touch raised gooseflesh on his skin and he felt the thrill of it stirring his blood.

She looked up then, after she had spent careful moments examining it, and met his eyes. Her eyes were dark and berry-black, their expression patient and serious.

            “I see,” was all she said.

            “Do you?” he asked, and this time there was no disguising the current of desperation beneath his words.

            “Tell me,” she replied, simply.

            “I was sixteen…” he began. “And I had no idea what I’d signed myself up for, not really, until after it was done. There’s no getting out, you know,” he said, taking another gulp of his drink, “once you’re in. No backing out. Not unless you like the idea of a painful death.

            “And my father,” he went on, dragging in a ragged breath, “was in prison. My mother... she was captive in her own home... But I wanted it, at the time.” He laughed, and it was bitter and gritty in his mouth. “I wanted to prove myself. To make myself worthy of the Malfoy name.

“ _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper._ That’s the family motto. I thought that by following in my father’s footsteps, taking up his place... that I was living up to expectation. That I was doing the right thing...” he trailed off, and then faltered.

“But I wasn’t cut out for it. I couldn’t be what they wanted,” he said, gulping back his flickering panic. “I did stupid, reckless things, awful things – worse things than I ever imagined of myself. The things he asked of us...” He shuddered. “But I couldn’t do it... I just... You need to _mean_ it. And I...”

But here he faltered, and his words trailed away like sand through his fingers.

Looking up, casting his eyes about the room wildly, fearing, _knowing_ , he’d said too much – that there was no going back, that she could see him now in all his ugly, broken shades. But then he felt the touch of those gentle fingers, the same ones that had traced over the white lines of his Mark, against his jaw, guiding his gaze to her own steady, brown eyes.

He had the fleeting sensation that he was falling, only the merest moment – and surely the alcohol... Then he noticed the determined tilt to her lips, dark intent of her eyes, the way the curls had devolved from curls to familiar frizz – and then she was drawing close, her fingertips chasing along the line of his jaw, down to curve around his neck, pulling him ever closer.

She kissed him softly, but with a surety that caused him to shudder in pure relief, then he pulled away, needing to finish, to make her understand.

            “I don’t believe it anymore, none of it – I was a boy, stupid, so stupid – and selfish, Merlin so fucking selfish - but I swear it, Hermione, I’m not that same boy”-

But here she cut him off again, laying a finger to his lips.

            “I know,” she said.

And that was that. There was a strange stillness to the moment that spun like silver in the air around them, and then he couldn’t hold it in any longer. With a gravelly urgency burning in his throat, he pulled her towards him, kissing her roughly, twisting fingers into her fuzzy curls.

            “You sure?” He asked, needing to be _know_.

She pulled him back to her, meeting his lips with a desire that burned, that matched his own beat for beat, and he fell. No more lies, not now.

He had fallen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh you little gems! How lovely it was to get your comments and kudos! I'm positively afloat with delight. I've also had some wine. Thank you dear hearts you make my day.
> 
> I love this chapter. This is just the start of what I like to call Draco's Long Torture. Sorry. It's also the last of the chapters currently published on FFN. So all chapters from here on out will be published as I write them both here and on FFN. Good news is that there's a new one coming tomorrow.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading!
> 
> -Millie x
> 
> P.S. You can find me on tumblr @mildred-meadowlark - come say hi!


	16. Falling Leaves

** FALLING LEAVES **

_September 2005_

Her sessions with Demelza were progressing well.

It was rather a surprise to Hermione to discover that they were something of a comfort to her. Sometimes they would simply drink tea and talk; Demelza had a wonderful way of just sitting back and allowing Hermione to talk, a calm half-smile on her face, her large eyes watchful and easy. Other times she held Hermione while she cried her frustrations away after a particularly difficult session.

There were times, too, when Demelza would put her into that strange soporific trance where half-remembered scraps would flicker through her mind like a disjointed film reel. Sometimes it worked and others it didn’t. But when it did work, it was like nothing Hermione had ever known. Like looking down through muddy waters only to have them suddenly clear for a moment and discovering a bed of gold beneath her feet.

Times like that made up for the bad days.

Harry joined them once or twice - and Draco too. They tolerated each other well enough, though the tension was obvious enough to Hermione and everyone who wasn’t living under a rock.

It didn’t take long for it to become clear that many of the fragments of Hermione’s memories had one unifying link.

Hogwarts.

Every memory, every latent thought seemed to come back to that place. Perhaps because she had spent so much of her life as a witch there. It had been crucial to her development as a witch. For Harry, it was much the same. He’d admitted it one afternoon as they’d sipped tea together after a long session with Demelza.

And there was no denying the pull she’d felt that day, when Harry and Demelza had taken her to see Hogwarts. It was the sense of majesty, like that intangible air of age and time and sanctity that she associated with vast churches and ancient temples, as well as a something else... Something familiar.

* * *

 

_August 2005_

The sky had been heavy with clouds and suppressed heat, punctuated by the occasional nimbus of pale gold light. It had happened like that, when first she set eyes upon the castle looming harsh and grey and momentous as she approached, then suddenly warming, all golden towers and smooth plains of bronze stone as the sunlight won through for a fleeting moment and gilded everything it touched.

She’d had to pause, almost dizzy with anticipation, at the steps to the castle, but then Harry had reached across and grabbed her hand to give it a squeeze and she’d smiled and that was that. She’d marched up the steps, the beat of her heart matching the tread of her feet, trying to ignore the tremulous fluttering in her stomach.

Then the doors had opened.

It was, she’d thought, rather more than anything she could have imagined or expected. High, high above her head was a great vaulted ceiling and it was lit by a vast window, which sent fragmented whorls of light spilling down onto the staircase and across the expanse of the hall, making a silhouette of the woman who stood, waiting, at the foot of the staircase.

If Hermione had felt herself faltering, she didn’t let it show as she continued on into the castle, flanked on either side by Harry and Demelza. She felt rather like a tourist – like the ones she saw visiting the Bodleian – agape as she was, wide-eyed and incredulous, wondering if she really had gone to school here, in this place.

And as they’d approached the woman, she’d begun to move towards them, and her features came into close relief. She was tall, taller than she’d first appeared in the vastness of the hall, with black hair that was liberally streaked with silver and grey, and while her face was lined into a stern expression, there was a warmth in the green of her eyes that could not be disguised.

                “Why, Miss Granger, it is you,” she spoke out before reaching them, her voice carrying across the hall.

            “Didn’t you believe me, Professor?” Harry asked as they met, a teasing note in his voice. “Did you really think I’d lie?”

She rewarded his comment with nothing more than a withering look, which Harry merely grinned at, entirely unabashed. And then Hermione saw it. A twitch of her mouth, the smallest of movements. A smile, hidden beneath the stern facade.

Hermione suspected she was rather fond of Harry.

But then, knowing what she did of Harry, and what he had done... well, it didn’t surprise her.

And of course, this was Professor McGonagall. She’d been head of Gryffindor, back when they’d been at Hogwarts. She was the headmistress now.

She’d been Hermione’s favourite professor once, or so Harry and Draco told her.

            “It’s good to see you again, Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall went on, turning back to Hermione. “I do admit to worrying that we would likely never see you again.”

            “I doubt you’re alone there,” Hermione replied, glancing at Harry, and they shared a moment of understanding.

It wasn’t missed by the Professor, who watched them with a rather sentimental glint in her eye, before pulling herself together with a sniff.

            “Would you care to look around the castle? From what I’ve been given to understand by Potter here is that you have been” – and here she paused to take what appeared to be a steadying breath – “Obliviated by someone you cannot remember. And so you have come here to jog those memories.”

Hermione nodded.

            “Well then,” McGonagall went on, nodding briskly. “I think we’d best start in the Great Hall, don’t you?”

Then she turned on her heel and marched towards a set of doors, with the air of someone who expected to be followed. Harry and Demelza shared an amused glance before shrugging and following.

            “Is she always so...?” Hermione asked, under her breath.

            “Imperious?” Demelza supplied with a grin.

            “Yes,” Harry cut in. “She’d give the queen a run for her money.”

            “I can see that,” Hermione replied, a grin of her own creeping onto her face.

            “Yeah,” Harry chuckled. “Just don’t cross her. That’s all I’ll say. I wouldn’t put it past her to give us detention.”

            “Are you three planning on just whispering like children back there all day?” Professor McGonagall’s voice carried back to the three of them like a bell.

They didn’t bother to stifle their laughter as they hurried to catch up.

Hermione caught up to Professor McGonagall and fell into step beside her, just as the doors to the Great Hall swung open. It was a magnificent room, grander and vaster than the Entrance Hall, lined with leaded windows, which allowed the light to overflow and spill, down over the four long tables and the smaller table on the dais.

But it was the ceiling which made Hermione gasp.

The ceiling... well, it was like something from a dream. It was like looking up, up, up into the tumultuous clouds of the late summer sky, watching as the sunlight created dappled patterns underfoot, chased away and then back again, in moments of light and shade and light again.

At first she thought there was no ceiling on the Hall, that she was truly looking up at the sky. But then she saw it... the faint sketching of line and shape that indicated what she saw was not a true sky.

And then she remembered, and was annoyed at herself for not remembering sooner. The ceiling was enchanted. It was mentioned in Hogwarts, A History. But she’d never imagined it would look like this.

And it was so much better.

Her reverie was broken by the sound of a dry chuckle, and realised that Professor McGonagall was watching her.

            “Do you remember the first time you saw it?”

            “No...” Hermione replied, but she sounded unsure, even to herself, and she wondered.

Raising her eyes to the ceiling once more, she watched it – the play of light and shade, the ceaseless rumbling of the heavy clouds – for a moment or two, no more, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

She cleared her mind, just as Demelza had taught her to do, and focused on the quiet of the room. It was a stillness that seemed unnatural, the more she focused on it. And then... there was something, just there in the back of her head, and ringing like a shadowy echo in her ears...

The sound of voices, juvenile and many, and the distant clank and scrape of plates and cutlery...

The warmth of bodies jumbled round a table, and dozens of candles held aloft...

And a velvet-black sky above, twinkling with stars...

Her eyes flew open.

            “Yes,” she gasped, startling Professor McGonagall. “I remembered. I remember this place.” She turned, looking for Demelza. “Demelza – I remembered!”

Harry and Demelza hurried over to her.

            “What was it? What did you remember?” Demelza asked.

            “The Great Hall – just a flash of a memory, really. But still.”

            “Tell me about it.”

            “Well...” Hermione began, rather used to the process now. “At first I just heard voices, lots of them. Then the sound of... it sounded like cutlery and plates. And then”- she began to walk around the hall a bit, searching –“I was...sitting, I think, somewhere around here.”

She stopped, in between the length of two tables, looking up at the ceiling above.

            “And there were candles,” she went on, “hundreds of them – floating in the air... and the sky – the ceiling – it was black. There were stars,” she finished, looking over to the others, clustered by the door. “I saw them.”

Harry walked over to her, pausing in front of her, before guiding her to a bench by the table she stood closest to.

            “Gryffindor,” he said, with a small smile. “And you liked to sit right here.” He paused, frowning a moment. “I’m not sure why.”

She laughed at that and took a seat, feeling strangely emotional.

There was something building... She could feel it there, low in the centre of her chest, in the little tremors that chased up her spine, in the prickle of gooseflesh on her arm.

She knew that she’d been there before... She’d been told. There were memories, mere flickers...

But there was more than just this, more than just the rightness in her bones and in the very air that she breathed. There had to be.

She just couldn’t say what it was.

Even after she’d visited the Gryffindor tower, the dungeons, the library, and the hospital wing, she was no closer to knowing what ‘it’ was.

Though she would admit to bursting into full-blown tears when she’d encountered the library. She knew that place... She knew it well. She hadn’t even needed to think about it. She’d seen that very place countless times in her dreams and in the scraps of memory she’d gleaned from her time with Demelza.

She could’ve stayed there all week.

The castle itself was something else entirely, with its maze of stairs and secret passages, spiralling towers and endless rooms. There was far too much to take in, and her eyes tried greedily to cling to details which, until then, she’d only gleaned from her books.

In the end though, it was an image, and a feeling, of wind and sky and forest, and-

            “Is there...” Hermione tried, wondering how to voice the question. “Do any of the towers open onto a roof? Is there a watch tower or something like that?”

Demelza, ever attentive, turned to look at Hermione.

            “Is it-?” she started to ask.

Hermione nodded before she could finish, and Demelza nodded back, looking thoughtful.

            “The Astronomy tower,” Harry said as he moved closer to them, followed quickly by McGonagall.

            “Quite right, Potter,” McGonagall agreed. “Lead the way.”

They made their way up in silence, and Hermione could feel her heart beginning to gallop in the cavern of her chest. Even though she felt she already knew the answer she was looking for, she had to be sure. Had to see it for herself.

They began to climb the stairs to the tower, round and round, the sounds of footsteps echoing in the solemn air. When they reached the top and Hermione caught the first scent of cloud and mist and pine, she knew.

She knew. And what had previously been a ragged gasp of a memory, a half-recalled dream, suddenly became vibrant and sharp before her eyes, and she suddenly remembered being seventeen and standing, right there, looking over the ground of Hogwarts and knowing that she would never feel such love, such rightness, such a sense of belonging, of home, as she did then.

She knew it then, as clearly as she knew her eyes were brown.

She was home _._

* * *

 

_September 2005_

Autumn arrived rather quickly that year, with a rainfall of russet-coloured leaves, and fretful cloudy skies and moments of brilliant sunshine; chased on by a chill wind that spoke of October to come and bonfires and the warmth of woollen scarves. And with it came change, but then, change had been coming since the day she met Draco.

Swept up in the hasty arrival of the new season was all the bustle of the new academic year; new faces, new textbooks, new research to be published. And after the strange stillness and heat of a summer that had felt overlong in some ways, the flurry of activity that always accompanied this time of year felt very welcome to Hermione.

Even though so much had happened over the course of the summer, so much change, this was a time of change that she knew, one she recognised - unlike that of the ever-varied landscape of her memories, and the re-discovery of the person she had been... and the person Draco had been too.

She sighed, thinking of him, of the many things he had told her that drunken, fateful evening, more than two months ago. It felt like the evening where everything had changed, really. Kisses dropped like falling stars onto her waiting mouth, the feel of his hands on her body, deft and clever, and the heady, burning warmth of the Firewhiskey in her belly.

There’d been other kisses too. Shared in the shadowy corners of her flat over a lazy evening and bottle of wine; traded with gentle barbs and sharp quips and long, languorous conversations over dinner. Dark, sinful kisses that felt like they would last all night.

Which, sometimes, they did.

And with the rediscovery of her former life, her magic, came a confidence and a courage which Hermione had never known she’d possessed. It gave her the confidence to finally accept Cassie’s offer to get a bite to eat after work one day. It was something she wouldn’t have even considered before now.

They opted for an underrated little Indian restaurant not too far from the Bodleian and took their seats as they were greeted enthusiastically by their waiter, called Navir, who seemed to be on good terms with Cassie.

After looking at the menus, they ordered their drinks and an array of dishes. They chatted idly about work – about the fact that Deborah from downstairs and Martin from IT finally seemed to have gone out for a drink, about Norman’s new assistant (poor lad), about whether or not there was any truth to the rumour about the librarians going on strike as they waited for their food.

            “So, I have some news,” Cassie announced mildly, taking a sip of her sparkling water. “I’m pregnant.”

            “ _What_? Seriously? Congratulations!” Hermione cried as she leaned across the table to embrace her friend. “I can’t believe it!”

“ _You_ can’t believe it?” Cassie replied wryly. “I mean, we weren’t even trying for a kid. I’m on the pill! Or rather, I was...”

            “How far along are you?”

            “Ten weeks, thereabouts,” she answered with a shrug. “I only found out a couple of weeks ago.”

Hermione cocked her head slightly to the side as she regarded her friend.

            “And how are you?” she asked gently.

            “Honestly?”

Hermione nodded.

            “Terrified,” Cassie admitted with a faint laugh. “But weirdly thrilled at the same time. It’s bizarre,” she admitted, toying absently with her fork, before bringing her gaze up to meet Hermione’s watchful one. “This wasn’t part of the plan. The timing’s all wrong. I have no idea how to be a parent.”

            “You know, I’ve been told there’s no such thing as the right time to have a baby,” Hermione replied. “You’re never ready.”

Cassie had looked at her closely when she’d said it, her eyes narrowed slightly but she conceded that maybe she had a point. Conversation lulled for a moment as Navir arrived with their food and they helped themselves to food.

And then:

            “Who told you that?”

            “Told me what?” Hermione asked, bemusedly, as she spooned out her lamb biryani.

            “About kids. About there being no right time.”

            “Oh, right,” Hermione let out an uncomfortable little chuckle, realising what she’d unwittingly let slip. “My friend Harry. He has a two-year-old kid. A little boy called James.”

            “Oh...” Cassie paused , looking thoughtful as she chewed on a piece of naan bread. “You’ve never mentioned him before, you know. Who is he?”

            “We... we were in school together,” Hermione struggled. “We reconnected over the summer. I haven’t seen him in years.”

            “Is he nice?” Cassie asked with a familiar glint in her eye.

            “Yes, he is,” Hermione replied tartly. “He’s also married.”

            “Typical.”

            “You’re married, you fool.”

            “Details, Hermione, mere details,” Cassie scoffed, waving her fork airily.

            “He was twenty four when he and Demelza had James, you know,” Hermione mentioned as she reached for the mango chutney. “And he felt he was far too young, far too unprepared to have a child. Demelza was even unhappier. It interfered with her career, and she hadn’t wanted to have children so young. She was only twenty two.

            “They’d only just married, you see,” she went on. “And it was exactly the wrong time for them both to have a child. They talked about getting rid of it. Harry said it was her choice... but when it came down to it, she couldn’t.

            “And Harry... well, Harry is an orphan, so he’s always wanted a family. It was a dreadfully tough time for both of them, or so they tell me. But from it they have James, and they don’t regret their decision.”

Cassie didn’t speak, though her eyes were bright and her brow furrowed. She was silent for a long moment, and Hermione left her to her thoughts, allowing the sounds of the restaurant to wash over her. She wondered if even should have told Cassie about Harry and Demelza.

But she figured that eventually her two worlds would collide. She just wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

She finished her lamb biryani, and watched as Cassie idled at her beef madras.

            “You’re really not feeling that madras, are you?” Hermione observed drily.

            “Is it that obvious?” Cassie asked abashedly. “Nothing tastes right. It’s bizarre,” she told Hermione, repeating her earlier words. “Ugh. This pregnancy is taking forever.”

            “Don’t be silly,” Hermione admonished lightly. “You’re a quarter of the way through all ready.”

Cassie rolled her eyes. “As I said, it’s taking _forever_.”

            “You have to be the most impatient person I’ve ever met.”

            “Possibly. Anyway, enough about me. How are things with you?”

            “Oh,” Hermione shrugged. “They’re, you know, fine. Normal.”

Cassie rewarded her deflection with a knowing smirk.

            “Fine,” Hermione sighed. “Shall I tell you how I ended up reconnecting with Harry?”

            “Please do. After all, I told you my secrets.”

            “So, you remember that guy who came to view the _Silentiorum_ back in June? Draco Malfoy?”

            “Oh yeah. The blonde guy, very easy on the eyes.”

            “Yeah, him.” Hermione couldn’t help the grin that rose to her lips. “Well, as it turns out, I was in school with Draco, and”-

            “You were in school with him?” Cassie asked in disbelief. “And you never said?”

            “Well, I didn’t recognise him straight away, and we weren’t exactly friends or anything back in school.”

            “Sorry. Go on. No more interruptions, I promise.”

            “Anyway, Draco mentioned that he saw Harry from time to time, and he asked if I’d like to Harry again, and I said yes. It meant an awful lot to me,” Hermione confessed. “Being able to see him again, I mean. He was like a brother to me. I thought I’d lost touch with him for good.”

            “So what about Draco?”

            “Seriously?”

Cassie shrugged unrepentantly.

            “What about him?” Hermione demanded.

            “Don’t get me wrong, I’m really happy you managed to find Harry again but Hermione, you blushed every time you said Draco’s name. You’re blushing right now, for god’s sake!”

            “I’m the worst liar, aren’t I?”

            “The very worst,” Cassie assured her fondly.

            “I’m seeing Draco.”

            “There now. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

            “I think I might hate you.”

            “I thrive on hate.”

            “You and your demon spawn.”

            “Low blow, Hermione. Low blow.”

            “I regret nothing.”

All in all, Hermione felt dinner went well. She and Cassie left soon after and immediately made plans to make it a regular habit, though Hermione resolutely ignored Cassie’s attempt to lure her into being her ‘sober buddy’.

She got home later that evening, sang her hello’s to the cat, and settled down with her wand and a cup of tea. In a moment of spontaneity, buoyed by the lightness she felt since dinner, she picked up her wand and fetched an empty cup, the same one Draco had transfigured that first day at her flat.

The one spell which she had failed to master. So far, anyway.

She set the cup down on the coffee table and pointed her wand at the cup, taking a deep breath.

            “ _Tintibulus_!” she pronounced.

And to her delight, the cup began to transform. It wasn’t quite as elegant as the one Draco had produced, but still – she’d done it. With a wide grin, she picked up the china bell and shook it.

The sound of her laughter mingled joyously with giddy chimes of the little transfigured bell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is brand new, and I'll be posting it to FFN too. I'm so happy that people enjoyed the last chapter. This one is kind of a slow chapter but I felt it necessary in terms of Hermione's development.
> 
> Please let me know what you think. Thanks again for reading :)
> 
> -Millie xx
> 
> PS You can find me on tumblr so come say hi, or if you've anything you'd like to ask me, that's the best way to reach me. M xx


	17. Words (Un)Spoken

**WORDS (UN)SPOKEN**

September 2005

The clouds skated effortlessly against the powder blue sky and he could almost taste the crispness of the September air on his tongue. For the first time in what felt like half a lifetime or more, he craved the thrill of a broom beneath his hands, the race of his pulse in his ears matching to the sound of the wind whipping through his hair as he chased on high currents of air and cloud.

            “You’re miles away, darling. Where have you gone to this time?”

Draco started, coming back to himself with a jolt. His mother’s enquiring gaze met his, shrewd and sad and shadowed with regrets of the past. Much like his own, he suspected.

            “My apologies,” he murmured.

He knew she loved him. She’d made many, many sacrifices to ensure his safety during the war and the tattered aftermath too. But the death of his father had destroyed her. She could no longer remain in England as she once had, head held high and ruthlessly dignified in the face of the Ministry’s force.

It was only thanks to Potter, and even then, who knew what kind of favours his mother had called in, they’d been kept free from Azkaban. She had defied the naysayers, those who relished seeing the Malfoy name turned to mud, and won her freedom. Her bravery was not the traditional kind. It was the quiet, sly kind of bravery that went often overlooked and dismissed by the louder, grander bravery that so epitomised Harry Potter and the rest.

But with the death of Lucius, Narcissa Malfoy dropped all pretensions and fled the life she’d ever known in England, the few remaining friends she had and the sister she’d barely begun know again, her home. It was too much, she’d said, arriving one day on his doorstep in Brittany. He’d welcomed her, of course. He loved her too much to do anything else.

And if she’d noticed his self-destructive tendencies, where once she’d have sharply admonished him, now she merely sighed and turned away.

Until the day she’d told him she would be retiring to a coven (a fucking coven) near Lourdes. Located in a chateau, she would be living a secluded life with other witches who wished to ‘retreat from the agonies of the world’.

Draco had thought she was joking. But one look at her dull eyes and the hard set of her jaw told him otherwise.

And so she left. Occasionally, Draco would visit her and be reminded of the woman she’d once been. It was painful; another torment to add to the list, another set of memories he couldn’t shake.

            “Draco darling, are you quite alright?” she probed when he didn’t elaborate.

            “Of course, mother,” he replied glibly, banishing his thoughts with a shake of his head. “Just a few things on my mind.”

They were sitting in the gardens of the chateau, and though they appeared to be alone, he was sure there were a number of curious gazes, as there always were, from his mother’s companions. Whoever they were.

            “Anything you wish to share?” she enquired lightly, taking a delicate sip of oolong.

He sighed heavily, and wished that he hadn’t. She’d know then that any answer he tried to give would be dismissed as a lie to fob her off. For all that she’d ‘retired’ from the world her mind was still as sharp as ever. She simply didn’t care to use it beyond her own, simpler concerns any longer.

He understood it, of course. He had done exactly the same thing, embalming himself in drink and seclusion on the shores of Brittany. At least he knew where the trait came from.

Resigned, and knowing he’d be unable to keep it from her anyway, Draco confessed. As he told her about discovering Hermione Granger in Oxford, the whole sorry tale, he watched her eyes grow wider and wider, and her tea turned tepid on the table in front of her.

            “Good grief, darling. What have you gotten yourself embroiled in now?” she asked when he’d finally finished his piece.

            “I have no idea,” he groaned, pressing his palms to his eyes in sheer frustration. He was positively aching for a drink, in a way that made the backs of his eyeballs itch. He wanted to scream, lash out, but didn’t.

            “And Miss Granger. She... trusts you?”

            “Somehow, yes,” he gritted out.

            “Tell me about her,” she prompted, a firmness to her voice that was terribly familiar. “Properly, if you please.”

Draco met her eyes and knew she understood without him ever even opening his mouth. He raised an enquiring brow, which she acknowledged with a tilt of her head and the lifting of her own brows.

He’d learned the art of unspoken language like he’d learned his alphabet as a child. It was as much a part of his education as it was to know his family history or how to properly brew a Shrinking Solution.

And so, he acquiesced with the merest nod.

            “She’s complicated. She always was, I think, but even more so now. She lives and breathes her work at the New Bodleian Library in Oxford. It’s a world renowned library, at least to the Muggles,” he told her, unable to suppress an irrational ripple of pride. “She’s doing a masters as well, because of course she is, she’s Hermione bloody Granger – oh, a masters is an advanced level of muggle education,” he added in response to the bewildered twist to his mother’s mouth. “She’s brilliant, truly. Even in the muggle world, she’s brilliant. When she rejoins our world, she’ll be extraordinary.

            “But she’s difficult,” he went on. “She doesn’t trust easily, and not being able to remember what should come easily to her is frustrating for her. Even so, she’s remarkably compassionate and open-minded. Forgiving.”

            “Oh?” Narcissa prompted.

            “She forgave Pansy,” he explained. “You know how horrible she was to, well, everyone in school. She was vicious when it came to Hermione. Pansy admits it herself. She was a terror.” He paused before swallowing the weighty silence and a wealth of emotion he didn’t dare acknowledge. “Hermione forgave me, Mother. I told her... well, as much of the truth as I’d been permitted to by Demelza Potter. But she knows what I was, what I did, and still she forgave me.”

His mother remained silent, and he knew that she was as much at a loss for words as he.

He still couldn’t believe it himself. He’d expected to be rejected, unceremoniously evicted from her life. But he hadn’t been. Instead she’d kissed him, accepted him, despite – or maybe even because of – his past.

He hadn’t managed to tell her all of it, not that night anyway. Instead it had come out in dribs and drabs, in half conversations and sleepy voices as they drifted off to sleep in the comfort of each other’s arms. But she’d still understood, and Draco knew he was in trouble.

She’d somehow become the largest part of his life and he had no idea what to do with that.

And then his mother, usually placid and entirely uninterested in the affairs of the world beyond the chateau, just had to go and open her mouth.

            “Darling, I do believe I would like to meet her.”

* * *

 

Draco was away again. He’d told her this time, but still she missed him. It ought to have been of some use to her, giving her the time to focus on her work and the space to think, but it hadn’t been, not at all. Instead of focusing on her dissertation, she was gazing absently at the cat as she lolled on the carpet.

Thinking of him.

She didn’t like to admit how much she liked him, how much she relied on him. She worried sometimes that the only reason she had fallen for him like she had was because he was the one who’d guided her back to her life in the wizarding world. But that was unfair to him. To all he had done for her, expecting nothing in return.

He’d been good to her.

Despite his past, what little he’d actually told her, the man she knew was good. And now she knew him better, she could see the remorse which underpinned his actions and his motivations. He put up a very good front, but it was easier to see through it now she knew him.

Hermione toyed absently with her wand. She’d been trying to become accustomed to using it in her day-to-day life, small spells which she’d practiced painstakingly. She was surprised how easily it came to her, the way sometimes a spell she didn’t remember learning would bubble up in her mind, begging to be spoken, and usually to mixed results.

Making up her mind, she stood and cleared away her books and papers, and shut down her laptop. She changed quickly and left before going for a long run.

As it always did, the run cleared her mind, ordered her thoughts, and calmed her. She returned to her flat and showered, and sat down to wait with a book she didn’t actually read.

At half past four, there was a knock on the door.

She hurried to open it, and when she pulled it wide she saw Harry. Usually it was Draco or Demelza, but today it was Harry. And though she was surprised, she wasn’t sorry for it. She’d been hoping for some time alone with him, and simultaneously dreading it.

Most of the time, when she happened to be around him, Demelza (and sometimes Dean, who had a lovely, comforting presence) was usually there, and acted as something of a buffer between them.

Conversation at times was hard. They both struggled to traverse that yawning gulf of things which yearned to be said yet remained unspoken. He tried, and so did she, but it was still hard.

It was odd, because she could sense his love for her in every gesture, and yet there were so many things he couldn’t say to her because she couldn’t remember their shared history, even though she knew it was there.

            “Hello Hermione,” he greeted her with a grin.

            “Harry!” She couldn’t resist her answering smile. “Come in. What are you doing here?”

            “You have a session with Demelza”-

            “No,” she cut him off impatiently, and saw him fighting to suppress another grin. “I mean, how come you’re here? I thought Demelza was picking me up. Which reminds me actually, d’you think I could learn to apparate? It must be very tiresome for you all to be always running around after me all the time, and I’d much rather be able to do these things for myself, you know.”

She was distracted by Harry’s shout of laughter.

            “What? What’s so funny?” she asked a trace of laughter in her voice, though she couldn’t understand why.

            “It’s like being back in school again,” Harry replied, still chuckling. “You. You were always like this in Hogwarts. You never shut up actually.”

Hermione blinked owlishly, unsure of what to say.

            “You were always bossing me and Ron around,” he told her. “Always reciting some interesting fact you’d found in the library or reminding us of how eminently capable you were.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had softened. “Always needing to know more.”

            “Am I so different now?”

Harry started, clearly not expecting the question. His emotions were easy for her to decipher. He didn’t mask them, not like Draco did.

            “No,” Harry replied, looking thoughtful. “I suppose not. I mean, you’re still you, still Hermione. Perhaps it’s me who needs to learn about the Hermione you’ve become.”

            “What a strange analogy.”

            “It fits though, doesn’t it?”

            “Maybe.”

            “Just maybe?” he wheedled, stuffing his hands into his pockets good-naturedly.

            “I’ll consider it.”

            “I’d expect nothing less from you,” he chuckled.

He seemed rather excitable, giddy almost, and Hermione was intrigued. Was this what he’d been like in school, all those years ago? Or had the knowledge of his own legacy weighed upon him like an anchor? She wondered if she asked, would he tell her.

            “Is that your work?” he asked her then, indicating the pile of books on her table with a nod of his head.

            “My masters,” she admitted with a smile.

            “Another thing that hasn’t changed then,” he laughed. “I used to wonder how you managed to cart about so many books. You used to have an obscene about of books on your person at all times. At one point you shrunk your books and placed them into a tiny handbag that you’d placed an undetectable extension charm on and carried it with you everywhere. It was incredible.”

Hermione frowned.

            “What are you thinking?” Harry asked.

            “Just wondering if I could do it now,” she told him absently, still absorbed in her thoughts. “It would be exceedingly useful.”

He snorted, “I’ve yet to see a spell you couldn’t do Hermione. Well, you had a bit of trouble with the patronus charm, if I remember right. But that’s the only one, I think.”

            “What’s a patronus charm?” she asked, and his expression told her he was unsurprised by the question.

            “It’s a protective charm, a defensive one, and it’s very advanced magic,” he explained. “It’s a shield of sorts, usually used against,” he sighed, running a hand through his messy hair, “well, used against these creatures called Dementors. They’re dark creatures, so to speak. They feed on the happiness of other creatures, humans in particular. They breed despair. They’re horrible creatures.

            “The only recourse we have against them is the patronus. To conjure it you need to harness a powerful sense of happiness, the most joyful memory you possess and channel it into this shield. It takes the shape of an animal,” he explained. “Mine is a stag,” he told her, somewhat bashfully. “Yours was an otter.”

            “Was? Do you mean it might be different now?”

            “Well, they can change form. I knew someone who had it happen to them.”

            “That’s fascinating. Do you have any books on them?” she asked him eagerly. “I’d love to read up on it.”

            “I can show you, if you like,” Harry offered. “After all,” he added with a wicked grin, that seemed to tickle a memory deep in Hermione’s consciousness, “I was the one who taught you before. Seems fitting, don’t you think?”

            “I think I’d prefer it if I didn’t have to relearn it at all, really,” she told him absently, still reaching for the memory but failing. She pushed it from her mind in frustration, promising herself she’d come back to it later, and gave Harry her full attention. “But, yes I’d very much like to learn, if only for academic purposes. How likely is it that I’ll actually encounter these Dementors in Oxford anyway?”

            “Highly unlikely.”

            “Well, that’s a relief. I’d rather not relive my worst memories. I don’t even know what they are.” Then she shot a look at him as a thought struck her. “Are they bad?” she asked him.

He looked uncomfortable for a moment, but didn’t flinch from the question.

            “Yes.”

            “I thought as much,” she admitted on a sigh.

            “We should get going,” Harry mentioned after a brief silence. “You’ll stay for dinner?”

            “Of course!” Hermione answered, surprised but pleased.

            “Where’s Malfoy, actually?” Harry asked, as Hermione gathered her things and left food out for the cat. “I’m surprised he’s not here standing guard outside the door.”

            “Don’t be petty,” she admonished, straightening and moving to his side. “He’s in France, visiting his mother.”

            “Narcissa? I thought she was dead, to be honest,” Harry remarked.

Hermione stifled a laugh at his bluntness.

            “You know her?”

            “Let’s just say we have a history of sorts,” he replied, green eyes shifting evasively behind his glasses.

            “Harry Potter, do not tell me you had some sort of sick cougar-kitten relationship with her or I swear to god I will slap you,” she told him indignantly, the words falling from her mouth before she could even stop them, but she wasn’t sure she minded because it felt so natural. She took a breath and concluded: “Ew.”

Harry roared with laughter.

            “No, my dear Hermione,” he assured her, still chuckling and throwing an arm around her, and she was thrilled when she didn’t flinch from the interaction where she might once have done. “I had no such cougar-kitten relationship (honestly, where do you even get these sayings from?) with Narcissa Malfoy. I’ll tell you about it sometime over a butterbeer or two, will that do?”

            “It’ll do nicely. We better go now though,” she added. “We’re half an hour late as it is.”

            “Demelza will have my head for this,” Harry groaned as he checked his watch in disbelief. “You’ll protect me from her wrath, won’t you?”

            “I can’t imagine Demelza ever being anything near wrathful,” Hermione mused in response. “Mildly pissed, at best.”

            “Well, brace yourself,” he told her, taking her arm and pulling out his wand. “Because I’ve no doubt you’re about to get a front row seat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, let's be real here. You guys are awesome, just had to get that out of the way, because well, it had to be said.
> 
> Anyway, I have written, oh, close to 7000 words so far on what was meant to be Chapter 17, but it's not even close to being ready to post - seriously, it's snowballed into a monster of a thing, totally not what I had planned. So I've split it. Once I have part two finished I'll be posting it straight away. My apologies for the wait, but I promise it will be worth it!
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think - feedback is always welcome :)
> 
> -Millie x
> 
> -Millie


	18. The Task

**THE TASK**

As it turned out, Demelza was not vengeful, wrathful or anything resembling volcanic with rage. Harry was (apparently) prone to jumping to conclusions, which seemed to fit, Hermione thought, though she couldn’t entirely explain _why_.

Demelza was, however, a little wan and tired looking, and Hermione immediately felt bad for having kept her waiting. The healer stood as they came in from the hall, where they had apparated in. She offered Hermione a soft smile, and at Harry’s pleading glance, extended it to him too.

            “What kept you?” she asked with evident curiosity.

            “It was my fault,” Hermione rushed in, needing to explain, wanting to assuage. “I kept him talking, when he came to pick me up... I ask too many questions,” she admitted with a roll of her eyes.

Demelza laughed. “You always did, you know.”

            “So people keep telling me.”

            “You ready to start?” Demelza asked her, to the point as always.

Hermione nodded.

            “I’ve got something new for you to try today,” the healer told her leading her over to what Demelza called her 'workroom’. “I think it’s time. Harry,” she added, turning her attention to her husband, “I’ll need you for this session.”

Harry, who’d been inching his way towards a jar of biscuits on the kitchen table, jerked around guiltily at her words and made to follow them down to the workroom.

Demelza’s workroom was simple, whitewashed and workmanlike. It was sparsely furnished with rough furniture, clearly handmade (and, as Demelza had admitted to Hermione in one of their sessions, had actually been made by Harry over the years) but very comfortable.

In the middle of the room was a table. On it, along with a number of small vials, sat the pensieve - the one she’d seen during her first visit and hadn’t seen since. All her sessions with Demelza to date had been concerned with seeking memories through meditative magic and legilimency. This was something entirely different, she could tell.

A rivet of excitement went through her, a rush of something like exhilaration, and she fought the urge to ask yet more questions.

Before they began, Demelza had her run through their usual exercises, starting with breathing and stretching, and closing their eyes and allowing their minds to clear. Hermione wasn’t sure why, but Demelza religiously joined her, breath for breath, in these exercises. Whatever the reason, Hermione appreciated the company.

When they’d finished, she was surprised to see that Harry had taken off his glasses and joined in unquestioningly. His face looked strangely naked without his glasses. There was a wonderful sense of stillness in the air which spun beautifully into the white light spilling from the deep-set windows.

Demelza made her way to the table and to prepare for their session. She poked at the strange substance which sat in the basin of the pensieve before turning to beckon Hermione and Harry over to the table. They moved toward the table, though Harry hung back slightly, allowing Demelza to work with Hermione without distraction.

Demelza picked up a vial from the table, squinting lightly as she read the label. Hermione could see now that it was filled with that same mysterious substance which was in the pensieve. Demelza had abandoned the first vial and picked up a second, and was frowning and muttering to herself.

Hermione took the opportunity to examine the pensieve. She’d been powerfully curious about it since that first glimpse. The polished red stone gleamed in the light, illuminating the finely wrought runes which had been painstakingly carved around the edge of the basin. Once upon a time, Hermione had known the meaning of those runes.

Demelza turned to her, having finally reached some sort of unspoken conclusion. “You ready to do this?”

Hermione nodded.

            “Okay, good. So I’m assuming you remember the pensieve,” she said, running her hand along the carved edge of the basin. “Well, these vials contain memories – Harry’s, specifically. We’re going to use the pensieve to view these memories,” she told Hermione, meeting her eye with a steady look, as she picked up the chosen vial. She opened it and, with great care, began to pour the vague, unformed substance into the pensieve. “I’ll be coming with you this time. I want to monitor your reactions, and I need to be sure we’re not moving too fast.”

Hermione wanted to assure the other woman that they absolutely _weren’t_ moving too fast, that she wanted to remember all of it, right now. But they’d already had that discussion, numerous times, and Hermione knew better than to waste her breath.

            “You should take your time with it, explore the memory,” Demelza continued. “See if it triggers anything for you. We can talk about it when we get out, if you’ve any questions, any fresh memories, that sort of thing. That’s why I asked Harry to be here for this session, you know. Seeing as they’re his memories, he’ll be able to give you a context that I can’t.”

            “Okay,” Hermione affirmed, wondering _how_ exactly she’d be using the pensieve to view the memory.

            “Right, well – do you need a moment to clear your mind?” the healer asked. “That was rather a lot of information I just threw at you.” Then added, more to herself than anyone else, “Upon reflection, I probably should have explained first and then done the meditations.”

            “No, I’m fine.”

            “You’re sure? It’s not strictly necessary, but I think in your case we really can’t be too careful. The scope of what we’re trying to do here...” Demelza trailed off. “Six years is a long time, Hermione.”

            “I know,” she nodded soberly, meeting the other woman’s gaze. She knew all too well how long those six years had been.

            “Of course you do – sorry.”

Hermione shook her head, dismissing the apology.

            “So how exactly _do_ I view the memories?” she asked, unable to hold back the question. “How does it work?”

            “I’ll show you,” Demelza replied. “You have to trust me, okay?”

Hermione nodded, her eyes widening as she watched Demelza lower her face towards the penseive until her forehead rested into the basin and the memory it held. And then, she vanished. Hermione swung round to find Harry, glasses back on his face, regarding her amusedly, though without any hint of mockery. But then, Harry wasn’t really the mocking type.

            “What the fuck Harry?” she asked.

            “Just do as she did,” he assured her with a nod. “The pensieve will take you to the memory. Go on,” he nudged. “Demelza’s waiting for you.”

She met his eyes once more and then took a breath she refused to admit to needing before mimicking Demelza’s movements and lowered her head towards the pensieve. She felt a moment of puzzlement – she’d expected it to feel wet – and then suddenly there was an abrupt jerk and, in a moment which felt like falling, she landed in the memory.

_An image swam briefly before her eyes before clearing and she realised that she was standing in the Entrance Hall of Hogwarts, eerily dark and shadowed, lit with flickering torches and bathed in the chill of the damp September air. The doors swung open and a veritable giant of a man strode into the hall, trailed by a group of whispering students who were dwarfed entirely against the sheer size of the man. He approached a witch – a slightly younger Professor McGonagall - standing tall and alert on the other side of the vast hall._

_“The firs’- years, Professor McGonagall,” said the giant man as he came to a stop in front of her._

_“Thank you, Hagrid,” she replied, her expression remaining stern, unlike when Hermione had met her at Hogwarts. “I will take them from here.”_

_She turned without another word and led the first years across the hall to a door which opened onto a chamber. As the children filed along behind her, with low murmurs and unsubtle whispers, Hermione finally caught sight of Demelza, who was watching her eagerly, and made her way towards her._

_“Come on.” Demelza grabbed Hermione’s elbow, pulling her along after the group and into the chamber, which appeared rather modest after the vastness of the Entrance Hall._

_Professor McGonagall was speaking, though if she’d seen them entering the room, she made no indication of it. Hermione said as much to Demelza._

_“Well, no, she wouldn’t,” Demelza replied. “The nature of the memories is that they are just that; they’re shadows, impressions of the past. We can observe them, hear them, but we can’t interact with them, can’t influence them in any way.”_

_Hermione nodded and turned her attention back to Professor McGonagall._

_“.., a great honour. I hope you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours,” she paused a moment, apparently letting her words sink in a moment.”The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.”_

_Hermione watched as she threw a hawk-eye over the crowd of first years. It was strangely silent._

_“I shall return when we are ready for you,” she told them. “Please wait quietly.”_

_It wasn’t a request._

_As Professor McGonagall swept from the room, what followed was not a flurry of voices as Hermione had expected but a nervous, expectant silence, punctuated by the occasional murmur as someone voiced a guess as to what the Sorting Ceremony was. Standing next her, Demelza nudged her with a bony elbow and bent her head to mutter a swift aside into her ear._

_“Look over there.” She indicated with a nod of her head. “It’s you.”_

_Hermione whipped her head around, feeling an odd curdle in her gut as she caught sight of her own bushy head – she certainly remembered the unruly tangle of it well enough, if not much else - and grimaced as she realised she could hear her own voice anxiously listing all the spells she’d learned so far, and wondering if she’d be called on to use one._

_“And over there,” Demelza added, nodding again. “It’s Harry. And that’s Ron standing beside him.”_

_“Ron Weasley?” Hermione asked, remembering the name being mentioned by both Demelza and Harry._

_Demelza nodded, and Hermione examined the small skinny form of Harry, with his dark thatch of hair, and Ron, taller and with a shock of red hair and freckles, as they muttered nervously to each other. Her gaze fell on Neville, standing somewhere in between her younger incarnation and Harry and Ron, as he tugged on his robes anxiously._

_Hermione pushed the recesses of her mind, searching, scouring for memories,_ anything _, but came up (frustratingly) with nothing. She pulled in another breath, keenly aware of Demelza’s shrewd eye, trying to soothe the simmering disquietude racing through her veins like adrenaline._

_And then the strange nervous solemnity of the room was broken by a shriek from one of the students, and Hermione felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up as she watched as a number of ghosts came floating through the walls, watched the ripple of alarm pulse through the crowd._

_And the ghosts were talking. They seemed to be debating a matter with some amount of animation, which ought to have been something of a contradiction, but strangely wasn’t. And then, they broke off as they noticed the group of students_

_“I say, what are you all doing here?” asked a ghost who appeared to be wearing a ruff and tights._

_“First years,” chimed in a fat little monk of a ghost. “About to be sorted, I suppose?” He paused as a few people nodded. “Hope to see you all in Hufflepuff! My old house, you know.”_

_“Move along now. The Sorting Ceremony is about to start.”_

_The sharp voice of Professor McGonagall skewered its way across the room, and Hermione saw more than one student jump as they realised the witch had returned unnoticed. The ghosts, taking their cue from Professor McGonagall, meandered slowly through the opposite wall in chattering drifts, and then they were gone._

_“Now, form a line,” the professor instructed, “and follow me.”_

_There was momentary confusion, and no small amount of pushing, as the students fell hurriedly into a line. She led them from the chamber, and Hermione watched as they followed obediently, like a troupe of little ducks._

_She and Demelza trailed after them at a slightly more leisurely pace._

_“So,” Demelza asked, “all okay?”_

_“Fine so far,” Hermione told her. “A bit frustrating, maybe. I don’t remember any of this.”_

_“Yet.”_

_Hermione shrugged._

_They were silent for a few moments as they followed the others into the Great Hall, but as she passed through the doors and saw what she must have seen all those years ago, she let out a breathy gasp. It was one thing, she supposed, to see it filled with summer light and empty of movement and life, but it was quite another to see it filled with students, lit with hundreds of glittering floating candles, and bedecked in the Hogwarts colours._

_There was a thrumming in her ears and she could feel anticipation building in her gut, something familiar and yet not. She could see countless pairs of eyes staring at the assembled group, which had come to a stop in front of the dais where the teachers sat. Without even really noticing what she did, Hermione pushed forward to better see the tattered hat and the four legged stool on which it sat._

_There was an expectant silence, one which was in danger of running on just a trifle too long, and then Hermione started slightly as the hat began to sing. Nobody else, except for a few of the first year students seemed even remotely perturbed by this, and she wondered when she’d stop being blind-sided by the unexpected, seemingly whimsical nature of magic._

_As it finished up the song, the assorted students and teachers burst into applause, and she watched in amusement as it made an affected little bow to each of the tables, before finally falling still again._

_Professor McGonagall stepped forward, unfurling a scroll of parchment and announced, “When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be Sorted.”_

_And then:_

_“Abbot, Hannah!”_

_A small blonde girl, her hair in pigtails stepped forward, stumbling a little on her nerves, and picked up the hat and sat down on the stool. It fell far over her eyes. There was silence for a moment, a waiting sort of quiet, before the hat opened its brim and shouted, “Hufflepuff!”_

_With a look of great relief, the girl pulled the hat from her head, set it back on the stool and made her way to a table on the right which clapped and cheered at her approach, and Hermione saw her smile shyly at her new housemates._

_Hermione watched as girl after boy, after girl and boy again were called forward, and then felt a strange pulse of remembrance as she heard her own name called._

_“Hermione Granger!”_

_She watched as her eleven-year-old self rushed forward in her eagerness and tugging the hat onto her head firmly. A momentary pause, and though she knew the outcome, Hermione still found herself biting her lip in sympathy with her younger self. She felt as though she could almost remember... the ghost of a voice, disembodied and reedy, the words vague and scarcely there. But finally-_

_“Gryffindor!”_

_She sighed with strange relief and watched as the younger Hermione ran to the Gryffindor table, who welcomed her with shouts and cries of welcome, slipping in amongst them as though she had always been there._

_There wasn’t much of a wait between her name and any other she recognised, which surprised her somewhat, though she wasn’t sure why. First she watched as Neville Longbottom sat for minutes on the stool as the crowd of students grew restless, until finally the hat proclaimed him as a Gryffindor._

_Not too long after came a young Draco Malfoy, swaggering up to the stool with an arrogance that Hermione found devastatingly funny. The hat had scarcely touched his head before it loudly crowed his Slytherin status. As he joined the Slytherin table, she could hear the hisses and jeers of other students and frowned, and looked around to seek out the owners of the voices._

_Her gaze fell on a two boys, identical twins undoubtedly, with a familiar shock of bright red hair, and she scowled before her eyes automatically sought out Ron Weasley, where he stood by Harry at the front of the hall. He looked over in the direction of the twins at the Gryffindor table, catching their eye for the briefest of moments, and it was all the confirmation Hermione needed._

_They were the Weasley twins. That seemed to ring right and familiar inside her, and for some reason she associated them, without really knowing why, with sweets and laughter and (0ddly) loud bangs._

_Then it was Harry’s turn._

_“Potter, Harry!”_

_The hall became alive with whispers and murmurs, and Hermione could see the students peering eagerly as the small, dark haired form of Harry shuffled to the stool. He kept his eyes lowered as he placed the hat onto his head, though at the last second, he looked up._

_Over a minute of ponderous silence, and still people hissed and muttered and twisted in their seats trying to get a good look in. Hermione even saw the teachers attempting a better look, which seemed patently ridiculous to Hermione, regardless of what he’d done as a baby. He was just a_ boy _._

_“Gryffindor!”_

_She heard the explosive cheers from the Gryffindor table, watching closely as he slowly walked towards his new housemates, relief written plainly on his face. He was terribly thin, she noted absently. He had that skinny, stretched look about him – the look of someone who has recently experienced a growth-spurt – only he was rather small and wiry regardless, with a wide, hungry look in his eye._

_She watched, sometime later, as Ron Weasley was sorted into Gryffindor, joining Harry at the table and saw her younger self lean across the table to address a remark to them both, and suppressed something of a laugh as young Hermione pulled away again abruptly before sticking her nose in the air with what was surely an aggrieved sniff._

_As Blaise Zabini was sorted into Slytherin, Hermione felt the quality of the memory begin to falter and looked down to see Demelza gripping her arm._

_“Time to go,” she told her, somewhat unnecessarily._

_Hermione nodded, and watched as Demelza pulled out her wand and waved in a sweeping motion, tightening her grip on Hermione’s arm, as the two of them began to rise from the memory..._

With a gasp, as though emerging from underwater, Hermione fell face first from the Pensieve and onto the floor. Demelza followed and landed with an aplomb that Hermione envied.

Awaiting them was Harry, who stood with a crooked smile, arms crossed against his chest.

            “So, how’d it go?”

            “Rather well, I thought,” said Demelza, coming over to offer Hermione a hand up off the floor. “But the real question is how do _you_ think it went?”

Hermione straightened, brushing off her jeans.

“Aside from the fact that I just viewed one of your memories you mean?” she asked, addressing her comment to Harry.

He gave something of a nonchalant shrug.

            “Consider yourself one of the privileged few,” he suggested.

            “Helpful,” Demelza supplied.

            “Honestly, I thought it was amazing,” Hermione told them. “Surreal. But good.” She paused, then added, “Can I view them again? As in more than once?”

Harry and Demelza shared a glance before turning to look at Hermione.

            “Would that be okay?” she asked hurriedly. “Or is that too much to ask? I mean, Harry, can you even remember them if they’re stored in the pensieve?”

She felt slightly horrified as she asked the question. It had never occurred to her before in all her fascination with the pensieve.

            “No, it’s not like that at all,” Harry assured her. “It doesn’t affect my ability to recall it. It’s more that the memory is less vivid. Of course, I’m not so sure I’m the right person to explain it,” he hinted, nudging Demelza with his shoulder.

            “It’s like what I said before, when we were in the memory,” Demelza explained, taking her cue from Harry. “It’s an echo of what has already occurred. It can’t be changed. The memory exists in Harry; _he_ is the source of the one we just viewed. The act of him sharing the memory with us, of consciously taking out that particular strand of memory does not mean that the memory no longer exists in his head. Sharing a memory and removing a memory are two very different things.”

            “Did you remember anything?” Harry asked, an eager glint in his eye.

Hermione’s mouth twisted as she attempted to formulate a reply and she shrugged lightly before replying.

            “Not really. I saw the Weasley twins. I knew them – they were familiar, as though I already half knew them.” She paused, thinking of something which had suddenly occurred to her. “And... something...” she struggled with the words, grasping the ragged fragment of memory – the merest wisp. “A joke shop?”

            “Yes!” Harry burst out as soon as the words left her mouth, earning him a disapproving glare from Demelza.

            “Yes?” Hermione probed.

            “The twins,” Harry began, glancing at Demelza before continuing. “They own a joke shop. A very successful one, at that. Two now, actually. Though when you knew them, they had only the one.”

Hermione nodded. This made sense. It more than made sense, she thought. It seemed fitting in that inexplicable way she was only just getting used to. The more she thought of it, the more it began to take shape in her mind.

She could see the shop front now, garish and busy and eye-popping, and she could see the twins, older than they’d appeared in the memory she’d just viewed, dressed in identical, lurid suits, wearing identical, mischievous grins. And more, she could see the shelves of neon coloured potions and concoctions, brightly wrapped boxes of magical fireworks, of _Ton-Tongue_ _Toffee_. She could see the pastel coloured puffballs, and was surprised when her mind produced yet another name – _Arnold the Pygmy Puff_. Another pet, she guessed. She wondered who it had belonged to. Perhaps it had been hers.

When she finally emerged from her thoughts, it was with the sudden awareness that Demelza was watching her closely and Harry appeared to have left the room.

            “Welcome back,” Demelza greeted her, a light smile curving the corners of her mouth.

            “Was I gone for long?” Hermione asked, rather bewildered.

            “Not too long. Five minutes, maybe?”

            “Oh. How very odd.”

            “Not that odd, actually,” Demelza remarked idly. “What did you recall?”

            “The twins. Their shop – _Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes_ ,” she broke off to chuckle at the name, so ridiculous on her tongue. “I could see it, and them, in my mind. And... Arnold the Pygmy Puff?” she asked perplexedly.

Demelza laughed before standing up and going over to the door. She pulled it open and called out, “Harry! She remembered something!”

            “What was it?” came his responding yell.

            “Arnold the Pygmy Puff.”

Hermione could hear Harry’s shout of laughter and, as Demelza returned to her seat, still chuckling, Harry himself appeared at the door.

            “You’re joking,” he said, as he flopped down into his chair once more.

Hermione shook her head and Harry started laughing again.

            “Anyone going to explain the joke?” she asked.

            “Harry can do it,” Demelza replied, waving her hand lazily in Harry’s general direction.

            “Fine,” Harry replied, having calmed his laughter to the occasional chortle. “Arnold the Pygmy Puff – honestly Hermione, what is it with you and the animals? – was the pet of Ginny Weasley – Ron and the twins’ younger sister. And my ex, actually. She pestered Molly Weasley for one.

            “And he was awful. He chirped and whistled, and god, just kept at it _all the time_ ,” he went on, rolling his eyes. “In the middle of the night even. And if you said anything to Ginny, she’d just shrug and say she thought it was cute. For the record, it was emphatically _not_ cute.”

            “Oh.” Hermione looked on as Demelza cackled and Harry shook his head at the memory of Arnold.

            “Harry,” Demelza began, hiccupping slightly over his name. “You should dig out some of your old photo albums. There’s bound to be a picture of Arnold in there somewhere.”

            “My dear wife,” Harry replied, looking outraged. “What on earth makes you think I would have hung onto a picture of that little cretin?”

            “Be a love anyway,” Demelza pressed on, in honeyed tones which left absolutely no room for argument. “Take a look while I show Hermione the other memories.”

Harry said nothing, choosing instead to meet her eyes for a long moment before shrugging and standing up with a rangy stretch.

            “Shall I pop the kettle on while I’m up?”

            “Oh, will you?”

He bowed his head and dropped a kiss onto her hair by way of a response before leaving and shutting the door behind him soundlessly.

            “Well?” Demelza prompted, sitting forward in her chair with sudden energy.

Hermione stood. “After you,” she said, gesturing towards the table where the pensieve stood.

* * *

 

_Once again the scene quavered and shifted blearily before coming sharply into focus._

_The Entrance Hall again._

_This time she was standing behind Harry, Demelza at her side. The hall looked resplendent in Christmas finery, and the crowds which swelled around them were adorned in robes of lush fabrics and vivid colours. Harry, standing nervously in front of them, was wearing bottle green robes. Ron, beside him, looked positively pained in rather ragged-looking maroon robes, which clashed alarmingly with his hair._

_Hermione leaned in to Demelza.”So what’s the memory?” she asked in a low voice, forgetting momentarily that she couldn’t be heard by anyone other than the woman next to her._

_“The Yule Ball,” she replied crisply. “Took place in your fourth year at Hogwarts. It was rather a grand affair, as I’m sure you can see.”_

_Hermione nodded faintly, before turning her attention back to the scene in front of her. She watched as other students entered; Neville, escorting a girl with characteristic Weasley red hair – and Hermione realised she was looking at a young Ginny Weasley; a strikingly beautiful young woman on the arm of a handsome (but dazed-looking) young man; Draco, wearing ridiculous black velvet robes, with Pansy on his arm, wearing a frilly abomination that Hermione knew was decidedly_ not _to Pansy’s taste._

_And then she was peering around, seeking out faces she thought she knew, seeking her own face perhaps. She caught a glimpse of Professor McGonagall speaking to a dark haired wizard with a hooked nose – and a name came to her unbidden: Professor Snape. Potions, she recalled suddenly before tucking it away for later._

_She was still contentedly people watching, chuckling at Harry’s awkward attempts at conversation with his date – a pretty girl with incredibly long black hair and dark eyes, and dressed in vivid pink, when Demelza elbowed her in the side._

_“Look.”_

_Hermione obliged but didn’t spot anything or anyone particularly noteworthy and wondered why the other woman had spoken at all. She watched as a group of students came in through the heavy oak front doors, led by a professor with an ugly little goatee and an oily expression on his face. And just behind him, she saw... herself. She looked nothing like the wide eyed girl she’d seen in the previous memory. Her hair was straight and shiny, pulled away from her face in a pretty knot, and she was wearing diaphanous robes in a delicate blue._

_It was strange, seeing herself like this._

_It was stranger still seeing the way the way those who recognised her reacted to her appearance. It was clearly her moment. One, Hermione suspected, meant a great deal to her younger self, and that made her strangely emotional._

_It wasn’t that she was no longer insecure about her looks. She doubted that kind of insecurity ever left a person. It was more that her insecurities were so much greater now, more complex, so tied up in the secret she’d carried inside her head for so long, unsure if it was even real. And those insecurities were hard to let go of too._

_And then she heard Professor McGonagall call out, “Champions over here, please!”_

_Her head spun around, looking around for the so-called champions, and was surprised when she saw Harry and his vividly-robed date step forward, along with the beautiful blonde girl with the dazed young man at her side. They were followed by a handsome youth with a pretty dark haired girl as his date and then by the awkward, dark haired young man accompanying her younger self._

_She felt her lips twist in wry amusement._

_This was_ definitely _her moment._

_She watched as Harry’s jaw dropped and recognition dawned on his face. Hermione stifled a chuckle, but when she heard Demelza doing the same thing she dropped all pretences and laughed outright. Demelza met her eye and joined in shamelessly._

_“He really was the most unobservant little fool,” Hermione said fondly, and without thinking._

_“What do you mean?” Demelza asked._

_“Well, like the time he...” Hermione replied, though her ready words fell away as she searched for the memory, for the moment – it was there, just_ there _for god’s sake – but the more she tried the more it felt like she was coming up against a relentless white void. She shook her head. “I don’t know what I meant,” she said on a sigh. “I’m sorry.”_

_Demelza said nothing, as if she understood too well the futility of words, and instead took her hand, squeezing it gently in a gesture which had passed between them many times in the course of their sessions._

_“Come on,” she prompted, inclining her head toward the door to the Great Hall. “They’ve all gone in now. They’ll probably be sitting down to eat at this rate.”_

_The Hall looked magnificent. Garlands of mistletoe and ivy crossed the vast ceiling, this time inky black and quilted with stars, and the walls of the Hall had been charmed to a silvery frost, which glimmered in the candlelight._

_And it turned out that Demelza was right. The students had been seated at the many round tables which had replaced the four long house tables and the sounds of chattering voices filled the air. Some of them were browsing menus and speaking to their plates, and Hermione let out a delighted little chuckle at the sight of dishes appearing from nowhere onto the plates._

_They wandered aimlessly for a few minutes, simply listening to the drifts and snippets of conversation which fell from nearby tables as they passed._

_“-you’ll find you’re wrong there actually. I mean how could you possibly think that the Cannons are going to fare well against Puddlemere? The Cannons have an abysmal record”-_

_“But Puddlemere aren’t exactly doing_ well _, are they? When was their last win, even? Three losses, at least, and a string of Snitch catches but not enough points scored to break even?”_

_“-and apparently it happened in the Library, but honestly, what’s romantic about that?”_

_“Oh, well obviously_ she’d _think it was romantic – she’s such a swot“-_

_“-some stupid egg thing but what’s the point in that?”_

_“Well obviously it’s a clue. I heard Cedric Diggory had his in the Library the other day. He refused to open it and wouldn’t even say why”-_

_And then she drifted towards the top table, where she and Harry had been seated along with their dates. She could see Ron with his date, who appeared to be the twin of Harry’s date, oddly enough, as well as Ginny sitting with Neville and the Weasley twins. She caught sight of other faces, further flickers of recognition, though her mind refused to offer up any other names. Ron, she noticed, was shooting black looks at the top table and steadfastly ignoring his poor date._

_Harry’s date wasn’t faring much better. He wasn’t exactly ignoring her, but he was looking about him with an avidly curious expression, which she had come to know so well. She watched in amusement as the girl narrowed her eyes as he absent-mindedly answered her question. Her younger self was seated further along the table, and she was surprised by the earnest conversation taking place between her and her date._

_“-and of course ve harvest the inverberry plants ourselves in the summer months. The days, you know, Herm-own-ninny, they are so long because ve are so far north at home – at my family’s home – and ve stay till midnight sometimes in the groves. My mother, she is the potioneer in our house and vhen the harvest is completed she vill lock herself avay”-_

_“Why would she do that? Is she terribly secretive?”_

_“No, it is just that she likes to have seclusion vhile she brews and the Stasis Solution is very temperamental, as I am sure you know.”_

_“Yes, I’ve read that. I’d so like to try it but it’s NEWT level here and I don’t think my parents would appreciate my blowing up the back bedroom.”_

_“His name is Viktor Krum,” said Demelza, at her side, watching the exchange with great amusement. “You two are quite the pair.”_

_“We’re dreadfully earnest, aren’t we?” Hermione replied._

_“You’re not so different now, you know.”_

_“Oh stop.”_

_Further along the table, Harry was still occupied looking around with undisguised curiosity, while his date scowled her disgust at his lack of attention. Demelza sniggered unashamedly._

_“Feeling petty?” Hermione shot a smirk at Demelza._

_“You’re supposed to be watching the memory, Hermione,” Demelza shot back._

_“Why is Ron glaring at me?” she asked, indicating her younger incarnation with a nod of her head._

_And he was indeed glaring quite ferociously at the younger Hermione, though it turned blacker still as his gaze fell onto Viktor Krum._

_“Oh, well you and Ron always did have something of a difficult relationship,” Demelza informed her with a chuckle. “Certainly not as clear cut as you and Harry anyway.”_

_Harry, it appeared, had been drawn into reluctant conversation with what had to be another Weasley, though this one wore glasses and a rather smug expression._

_“That’s Percy Weasley.”_

_“He doesn’t much resemble the rest of them, does he?” Hermione observed._

_“No, he’s cut from something of different cloth than the rest of them.”_

_After some time, Dumbledore stood, signalling the end of the meal, and requested that everyone stand too. Then, with something of a careless wave of his wand, the tables were swept back to the walls, leaving a great expanse of floor. Hermione watched, intrigued, as he conjured a stage along one side of the hall, complete with a full set of instruments – which included, curiously enough, a lute and a set of bagpipes._

_A band then appeared to tumultuous applause and wild cheering from the crowd which had gathered at the foot of the stage immediately after their appearance. They were all wildly hairy, and clad in aesthetically tattered robes. They picked up their instruments and an expectant hush fell over the hall._

_Hermione saw the younger Hermione and her date stand, along with the other champions and their respective dates, and then let out a little snort of amusement as Harry belatedly realised he was a champion too and had to be tugged to his feet by his date. They made their way into the middle of the hall and the band struck up a melancholic tune._

_While it was dazzling to watch the preternaturally beautiful Beauxbatons champion dance, and rather a relief to see she had acquitted herself well on the dancefloor with Viktor Krum, it was something else entirely to watch Harry dance with his date. He held her rigidly, as though she were a snake about to strike, and steadfastly refused to look her in the eye._

_It wasn’t long, however, before other couples began to join them, swaying slowly in time with the music. As the song ended, Demelza nudged her in the side._

_“What?”_

_“Harry. Look at him,” she said with a chuckle. “Fleeing the scene of a crime.”_

_And she wasn’t wrong. Harry, looking grimly determined, was fighting his way off the dancefloor, against the flood of people making their way closer to the stage as the band struck up a tune that was faster and evidently very popular. He reached Ron, who was sitting at his table with his date, trailed by his own date – both of whom were wearing matching scowls of disgruntlement._

_She sought out her younger self again, and found her in the centre of the dancefloor with her date, clearly enjoying herself. While the music had rather a lot of bagpipe for Hermione’s taste, it was evidently not the case for her fifteen-year-old self. She chuckled to herself as she watched Draco throwing himself wildly into dancing with a large group of his fellow Slytherins, displaying a lack of decorum that seemed entirely incompatible with the image he’d painted of his younger self – what precious little she did know._

_As the song ended and segued seamlessly into a new one, Hermione watched as Krum bent his head to speak to young Hermione, though with the noise, it was impossible to tell what he was saying. She nodded her head, and then replied, waving her hand a little as she spoke. The she turned and made her way through the crowd towards Harry and Ron._

_When Hermione caught up with her younger self, she could tell she’d stumbled into an ugly conversation._

_“...he’s just trying to get closer to Harry,” Ron sneered, “get inside information – or get near enough to jinx him”-_

_Hermione’s stomach lurched at the scorn in Ron’s voice._

_“For your information,” young Hermione replied, in quaking tones, “he hasn’t asked me_ one single thing _about Harry, not one”-_

_“Then he’s hoping you’ll help him find out what his egg means! I suppose you’ve been putting your heads together during those cosy little library sessions”-_

_The egg... Something about the word snagged on Hermione’s consciousness, and she felt a flicker of resonance inside her._

_“I’d never help him work out that egg!” young Hermione retorted. “_ Never _. How could you say something like that – I want Harry to win the Tournament. Harry knows that, don’t you, Harry?”_

_The egg... The Tournament..._

_‘I want Harry to win the Tournament.’_

_The Triwizard Cup._

_And then-_

_The cup. The dragon. The lake. The maze. Ron’s hand in hers, squeezing tightly, and Cedric Diggory’s dead body, and the chilling, agonising wailing of Cho Chang. Voldemort. He’s back, Hermione, he’s really back._

_There was a blackness seeping into the edge of her vision, spidery like ink, and she could feel her breath coming in shaking gasps. She was shaking. Hands cold._

_And just as she thought she was going to faint, she felt the firm, warm grasp of Demelza’s hand, felt the swift tug as she was flung from the memory-_

-and emerged with a sob in her throat and tears on her cheeks, falling into a ball on the floor as the abrupt storm of memories ruptured within her.

_Oh god Harry, no. Please, no. Not him._

She could see his face, starkly white, his green eyes dark with grief and some aching, unnamed emotion-

She could hear the tumultuous rumbling of hundreds of terrified voices, crying and shrieking and screaming and wailing-

And she could smell the blood... the blood of a battle yet to come, like a desolate premonition of events she knew had already occurred-

And then she could feel-

She could feel warm hands and gentle touches, and the subtle brushing of magic as it settled over her-

            “Hermione? Hermione, can you hear me?” And then- “Harry, she’s coming to, look”-

She pulled in a breath, realising that this room smelled like sage and lavender and tea, not of blood and chaos, and opened her eyes. Harry and Demelza were both seated at her side, peering down at her anxiously.

            “Don’t move too much,” Demelza instructed her, as she continued to run diagnostic spells, the incantations streaming from her mouth in a low mutter that sounded almost like poetry.

She met Harry’s gaze as Demelza worked, realising suddenly that he had her hand grasped in his. He gave it a squeeze and asked her in a low voice if she was alright.

She shrugged faintly by way of a reply. She wasn’t sure she trusted herself to speak yet.

            “Harry.” Demelza spoke, now scribbling notes onto a piece of parchment. “I need hot, sweet tea and some chocolate, it’s good for the”-

            “The shock,” Harry finished, getting to his feet. “I know.”

Once she’d finished making her notes, Demelza turned her attention to Hermione.

            “Well that was unexpected,” she said with her usual frankness, casting a shrewd eye over Hermione. “How do you feel?”

Hermione shook her head numbly, “I don’t know.”

            “A totally normal reaction, I assure you,” Demelza replied briskly, before adding in a softer tone, “I’ll need to ask you about what happened. It must have been quite a significant breakthrough.”

Hermione merely nodded. Demelza reached out to grasp her hand.

            “The tea will help. Promise.”

* * *

 

Once Harry had returned bearing sweet, hot tea and she’d been liberally plied with biscuits and a comfortingly large portion of Honeydukes chocolate, Hermione began to talk.

            “What happened when we were in the memory, Hermione?” Demelza asked, before taking a sip of her tea.

Hermione sighed.

            “It was fine at the start. I had a couple of flickers – names, here and there – nothing significant. It was Ron, I think, who triggered it. I’m not really sure...” she trailed off, thinking intently, lost in the second-hand memory of a fight she was only just beginning to remember. “We were arguing – over... Viktor, I think.”

She met Harry’s eyes as she continued. “He was accusing me of helping Viktor with the egg.” She sighed again. “That egg. I remember it so well now... Harry, you great fool. I can’t believe you left it so close to the task to do _anything_ about it! How _could_ you?”

Harry exploded with laughter.

            “You said exactly the same thing to me after the second task”- He broke off as her words registered. “Wait- you- you remember?”

            “Yes, well- no. Sort of.”

            “What was it about the egg that set you off, Hermione?” Demelza asked, a quill poised over a roll of parchment, covered in increasingly messy notes.

            “I don’t know really,” she replied. “Ron was going on about the egg and making those ridiculous accusations – he was rather _dramatic_ wasn’t he? – and, I don’t know, something about the word struck me. As soon as he said the word, I could see a golden egg – I knew exactly what it was; I could even remember that awful screeching sound it made when it was opened.

            “And then I – that is, younger me, began to defend myself. I told him I wanted Harry to win the Tournament and then it just... suddenly – god, it was like a train hitting me. Suddenly it was all there – like reliving it all again,” she finished with a shudder.

            “What exactly do you remember now?” Demelza prompted, looking up from her parchment with an intense look in her eyes.

            “Oh. Well... hmmm...” Hermione paused, trying to gather her thoughts. “Well, the Triwizard Tournament was... fourth year? Isn’t that right?” At Harry’s nod, she continued. “I can remember... the cup – no, it wasn’t a cup, was it? – the goblet. The Goblet of Fire!” she cried, the memory calcifying in her mind as she spoke. “I remember your name coming out of the Goblet, Harry... everyone was so... shocked – angry, even.”

She looked to Harry for reassurance, and he reached across to squeeze her hand before nodding.

            “You had no choice, you said... _A binding magical contract_...” she breathed, as she struggled to keep the memories at bay, each one tugging fiercely at her consciousness. “And after that... After that...” She frowned. “It’s a bit... patchy after that. I don’t know... what happens after that.”

            “Can you remember anything else?” Demelza asked, having charmed her quill to take notes now. Her fingers were heavily splattered with ink.

            “Yes, actually. I remembered all of the Tasks... and,” she paused, “something of the aftermath, I think...”

She fought the shudder that swept over her as she thought of the moment she’d learned that Voldemort had returned and everything, _everything_ , would change and there was no going back.

            “There were dragons...” she continued. “The Hungarian Horntail and the Swedish Shortsnout? Do I have that right?”

Harry nodded eagerly, while Demelza smiled her encouragement.

            “I was so scared for you Harry!” she admonished, feeling much more like herself the more she spoke. “Bloody dragons! What were they thinking? And you – only fourteen! Oh, but you flew so well. You know, I think if I hadn’t been so terrified, I’d have enjoyed watching you,” she added.

            “You helped, you know,” Harry told her. “I’d never have been able to summon my Firebolt if you hadn’t trained me. _Accio_. Do you remember?”

She had a sudden flash of herself standing with Harry in a classroom, surrounded by floating objects, and nodded slowly.

            “I.. Yes. I do...” she nodded.

            “I’d never have survived the Tournament without you.”

            “You don’t know that,” she protested but Harry cut her off.

            “Actually I do. I’ve had a long time to think about it – how much you did for us, for _me_ , the sacrifices you made... Without you, I’d never have survived.”

The words were stark with honesty, and Hermione felt her vision splinter with the threat of tears.

            “Thank you,” she managed.

            “How are you feeling, Hermione?” Demelza asked, a thread of concern in her voice. “You okay to keep going?”

Hermione nodded before taking a deep breath, suppressing the tears she knew were a foregone conclusion.

            “I can’t recall the Second Task, terribly well, actually,” she told Demelza. “That’s where the memories are fuzziest and least coherent. I mean, I can remember Harry coming to me for help with _weeks_ to go before the task... I can remember wanting to strangle him. How could he have been so bloody foolish?”

She trailed off, lost in thought, and missed Harry’s shamefaced grimace.

            “But it’s the oddest thing...” she went on. “I don’t remember much of the task at all. Was I in the water?” she asked abruptly, as another memory began to make itself known. “I have the strangest memory of being in the lake... and Viktor had turned himself into a shark - a half shark,” she finished with a hiccup of laughter.

            “Oh yeah, I’d forgotten about that,” Harry chuckled, then added to Demelza, “Remind me to send him a picture later.”

            “Oh! Are you friends?” Hermione asked, intrigued.

            “Of a sort,” Harry shrugged good-naturedly. “He’s a good skin – and an even better Quidditch player. But to answer your question, Hermione, yes – you were in the lake. They used you as... bait, I suppose – it all seems a bit extreme in retrospect – and had you placed under some charm and taken to be guarded by the merpeople in the great lake. We – the champions, I mean – had to retrieve our chosen captive within an hour, and a _complete_ pain in the arse.”

            “Oh yes...” Hermione murmured, as the eerie poem the egg had produced came back to her. “Was I your captive?” she asked curiously.

            “Viktor’s actually. I had to rescue Ron. Fleur had to get her sister, Gabrielle, and Cedric had to save his girlfriend Cho.”

Cedric.

_He’s dead! Dead!? But how?_

_Cedric Diggory – dead!_

_No! No! Cedric!_

Echoes of that night whispered frantically in her ears. The chaos, the screams shredding the night sky, cerulean blue, and the sly creep of panic which masked itself as a chill in the air, the slow, aching thump of her own heavy heart. She could almost touch it, such was the rawness of this particular shard of memory.

The Third Task.

She was brought back to the present abruptly by Harry calling her name.

            “You still with us, Hermione?”

She took a shuddering breath, feeling suddenly drained.

            “Yeah.”

            “We can stop if you want.”

This from Demelza.

            “No. I need to do this.”

She was being stubborn, she knew, but she didn’t care.

            “If you’re sure...”

            “I am,” she replied in a tone that brooked no further argument.

            “Well then,” Demelza said, with the air of someone taking up the reins, “let’s pick up with what you remember about the Third Task. Anything of the run up to the task? Any of the prep work you saw before the other tasks?”

            “Something of it... _Impedimenta_... I remember teaching it to Harry. And _Point Me_ , a stupidly easy spell – I’m amazed you didn’t know it, Harry,” she added as an aside. “I can remember making lists in the library – so many lists – of different spells for us to try. And worrying – an awful lot.

            “I feel like I did a lot of worrying about you,” she told Harry with frown, feeling terribly sad about this, though she couldn’t precisely say why.

            “You did,” Harry confirmed. “Something my younger self was not always capable of appreciating – but I absolutely did after the Triwizard Tournament, I can promise you that.”

            “I should hope so,” said Hermione with a sniff. “Dragons. Merpeople. Being held hostage!”- (“Ah, now that wasn’t strictly my doing, was it?”) –“And then a bloody maze which held a murderous dark wizard hell-bent on killing you! I’m surprised I haven’t turned grey from the stress.”

            “And that’s not even getting into what happened after that,” Harry chuckled.

            “Harry!” Demelza scowled her disapproval.

“Sorry,” he winced. “But Hermione knows what I mean, don’t you Hermione?” Harry turned his eyes to Hermione, gazing at her imploringly. “I mean,” he went on turning his attention back to his wife, “she’s not entirely ignorant of what happened. She knows there was a war.”

“Honestly, Harry, you have all the tact of a bull in a china shop,” Demelza told him, with a dismissive roll of her eyes. “So you remember the maze?” she asked Hermione. “And the...” –she cleared her throat lightly – “...aftermath...”

            “I do,” Hermione replied with unusual certainty. “This, of all of the memories is clearest. It’s the most... visceral, though that may not be the most appropriate word for it.”

            “Can you tell me about it?” Demelza asked, quill at the ready once more.

            “It was warm – the evening of the Third Task. I remember that. It was warm and still bright when we were heading down to the Quidditch pitch – me and Ron and Ginny and Neville... and maybe it was because it was so warm - it had been such a beautiful day – maybe that was why I wasn’t as nervous as I had been before the previous tasks.

            “We’d worked so hard. I was so... so proud of Harry – and of Ron too. I’d pushed them, and they never complained, never hesitated. I’d actually been looking forward to seeing him compete in this one. But, in the end it was difficult to see much of the task clearly, what with everyone being stuck inside that maze.

            “You could always tell when something was happening because of the light from the spellwork. It would raise up against the sky, almost like fireworks. Which looked pretty, but not terribly interesting to watch. And then, once Fleur and Viktor were out of the running, it was just a waiting game.

            “And then... he came back. Harry. Flung from nowhere and god, poor Cedric Diggory, and that blasted _cup_ – and then... chaos. Complete and utter chaos,” she finished tiredly, feeling hollow, her soul rattling about inside her like a copper penny. “Ron was with me, I remember that. He was nearly grey with fear, though he never said a word.

            “After that... it gets fuzzy again. Harder.” She paused, trying to grasp what little was there at the very horizon of her memory. “The hospital wing, I think. Dumbledore was there. And... Snuffles?” She laughed absently, as the name came to her. “Sirius was there. It’s hard to remember what was said. It feels very distant. And then... well, that’s it. I can’t remember any more,” she concluded with a shrug, exhaustion creeping into every bone.

There was silence for a moment, Demelza watching her closely, a little line puckering her brow, and Harry regarding her with an intense gaze, though his expression was difficult for her to decipher.

She was so tired.

            “Well done, Hermione.”

This from Demelza. Hermione met her gaze frankly.

            “I mean it,” Demelza assured her. “That was an unprecedented response to the memories – I could never have anticipated it. Never. And I know how tired you must be. Unlocking one memory can be hard, as you know all too well, but to unlock a sustained period of time like you just did... that’s incredible. And I made you go through it all again - I’m sorry.

            “But,” she went on with a sigh, “it had to be done. I need to record all of it, you know. And I needed to gauge your reaction. Talking about it helps the mind to accept, to adapt. How are you feeling now?”

            “Exhausted,” Hermione admitted with a breathless laugh.

She wondered if it was the tiredness keeping the tears and the panic away.

            “Well, I think you’ve earned a rest – a holiday, actually, if I’m being honest, but I obviously can’t quite manage that just now,” Demelza told her with a chuckle, “so I’m going to give you a small vial of Dreamless Sleep Potion. Take it before you get into bed. A night of uninterrupted sleep to give your mind time to rest and to heal. Promise me you’ll take it easy this evening? Nothing strenuous – no work, _none_ – and early to bed. And take the potion.”

            “As the good doctor orders,” Hermione replied, with an ironic salute.

Demelza laughed, not unfamiliar with muggle idioms, while Harry gave a snort of amusement as he made his way to Hermione’s side.

            “You okay?” he asked, his voice gruff as he pulled her against his side.

            “Ask me tomorrow,” she murmured, suppressing a yawn.

            “You were... so brave today,” he told her. “I never doubted that you’d find your way back to us. I know how hard you’re fighting. You’ve always been a fighter.”

She nodded, pulling away from him as Demelza approached with the Dreamless Sleep Potion she’d summoned from the cupboard, pressing it into her hand with another firm order to take the potion.

She assured her that she would, that she was going straight home to bed.

And for once-

For once, that was exactly what she did.

She needed it. She needed it so badly she could hardly see. Her mind was swirling, overflowing with flashes of memory, new and old, fragment and scrap and turmoil.

And when she finally made it home, she fell back onto her bed, utterly spent, eyes falling heavily. Just as she was about to drift off, she remembered the potion and pulled it from her pocket, tugging it open and downing it without even a thought.

Her last thought before sweet, black oblivion took her was of a fleeting gasp of nothing, a mere hiss of words into the unknowing ether of her mind-

_Filthy little mudblood._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My life is insane, I'm sorry. I never have time to write. Here is an enormous chapter to make amends.
> 
> Thank you all for reading. I'd love to hear what you think.
> 
> Love to you all.
> 
> \- Millie


End file.
